


Worlds Apart

by GoatEatingToilet



Category: Re-Animator (1985), Red Dead Redemption, Return of the Living Dead (Movies)
Genre: Action, Adventure, Alternate Universe, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Explicit Language, Gen, Gore, Horror, Night of the Creeps, Undead, Violence, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-01 23:35:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 84,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2791814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoatEatingToilet/pseuds/GoatEatingToilet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three men connected by an ancient relic. Three men who are not only all from different worlds, different versions of 'Earth', but who are all also worlds apart as far as personalities go. Bound by fate, the trio must learn how to trust and rely on one another as they find themselves continually thrust into new dimensions that are under some sort of threat by the undead.<br/>(Crazy crossover involving characters from Re-Animator, Red Dead Redemption and The Return of the Living Dead. Story spans across many different universes)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

 

There was a blazing flash of light that would have temporarily blinded anyone within sight of it and, as it faded, three men stood in a spot where nothing but tumbleweeds and a small dust storm had existed before. They all shifted around and examined their surroundings with a sense of anxiety that accompanied them with every new place they were thrown into.

If someone were to pass by the group, they would likely be thought of as collection of worthless vagabonds. They were all wearing tattered, stained clothing as well as smears of blood and dirt on every piece of exposed skin they had.

"So where the fuck are we this time?" Spider casually asked, providing the trio with his usual post-transition question. Having just recently torn the sleeves off of his newly acquired shirt, he was picking at the ripped material where tendrils of loose threads kept tickling his shoulder like actual spider legs. Neither John Marston nor Herbert West batted an eye at his foul-mouth dialogue, as they had all been stuck together long enough to learn each other's traits and not badger one another about them. Spider didn't receive an answer, not that he really thought he would anyway... but it still would've been nice. Herbert began to clean his glasses, which had gained a fine film of dust on them in mere seconds of their arrival, and John surveyed the land in front of him. Something about it looked awfully familiar... _felt_ awfully familiar.

Along with their ragtag look, each one of them was carrying something very... grisly. West's medical bag looked incredibly dinged up and blood was dripping out from something inside of it, Marston's large hunting knife had seen its fair share of combat, clearly displayed by the dulled edges and broken tip, and Spider's belt holstered a variety of bloodied hammers in it, some of which holding onto the fleshy remnants of whatever poor soul he had last bludgeoned it with.

"Does it really matter, hmm, _Spider_?" Herbert asked, taking an effort to say his companion's name in a way that continued to show his disdain for it. He liked the punk well enough he supposed (if Herbert could indeed 'like' someone at all, that was), but the name 'Spider' was just childish and irksome to him. Regardless, he doubted he would ever learn the young man's real name. "It's never where we are that should worry us, but what to expect: some form of the undead."

"Looks like your kind of shithole, John," Spider lamented, ignoring the doctor's reply and pushing forward with his rebellious attitude of disrespect and defiance. He had equated the area to the gunslinger because all he could see was overgrown weeds, cacti and lots of barren, dry earth all around them... and it reminded him of what the Wild West must have looked like almost as much as Marston himself did.

"It is..." John muttered in return, drinking in the sights as the familiarity gave way to full-on nostalgia. It wasn't easy to tell exactly where you were just by a desert landscape, but John was very acquainted with the rocky formations he had ridden passed time and time again, the nooks and crannies where outlaw gangs once hid and he would be damned if it didn't look like the town of Armadillo was just ahead in the distance. A huge smile spread across his face for the first time in what felt like ages. "Boys..." he said proudly, turning to face his traveling partners, "I do believe I'm home!"

Spider and Herbert looked at each other with equal measures of shock and disbelief. Was it true? Had they really come full-circle and somehow managed to make it back to John's old stomping ground? What would it mean if they had?

As John happily began to walk towards town, a much gloomier duo followed behind him. All three men began to reminisce on just how their stories began and subsequently intertwined, as well as the adventures they had had as a result.


	2. From the old West… (Red Dead Redemption: Undead Nightmare)

John watched with sorrowful eyes as his wife, Abigail, and son, Jack, rode off on the horse he had just ushered them onto. He knew this would be the last time he would ever see them, the last time he would be able to tell them he loved them. His days were at an end and he knew it. The foreboding dark clouds that were rolling in were extremely ominous to his current situation.

 _Jesus! Where did those come from? And why are they moving so fast?_ he thought, momentarily distracting himself from the misery in front of him and the doom he still had to face. The very least he could hope to do was save his family from a certain deadly fate if he sacrificed himself to the armed forces waiting on the other side of the barn.

He turned around, readying himself to confront whatever may come, and opened one of the double doors just enough to get a peek outside and ascertain the conditions.

It wasn't good.

There was a gang of men (ten of them at the very least) lined up in front of the building, guns aimed and ready to fill him full of holes and lead.

John took a step back and exhaled a deep, resolute breath, as if convincing himself that this was what he had to do. A moment later he pushed the doors open and walked outside to the greeting of hired hands with pointed weapons. Among them was the director of the Bureau of Investigation and the whole reason John found himself in this mess: Edgar Ross.

Even with death imminent, there was nothing more John would like to have done at that very moment than blow the smarmy mustache off that bureaucrat's face... and then put a hole between his eyes for good measure. The breathing pile of human rubbish had promised John he could go back to his normal life, a life with his family, after dealing with the former gang members he rode with once upon a time. But that promise only lasted so long before he brought an army to extinguish the last living memory of that gang: John himself. The American frontier and the old West were coming to an end in 1911 and gunslingers like John were becoming fewer and fewer as their world disappeared around them. It didn't help matters that men like Ross were hell-bent on bringing their extinction to them instead of letting it happen naturally.

 _I should have figured that filth would have survived a Goddamn apocalypse where the dead rise from their graves and feast on the living,_ John quickly thought to himself, recalling his feint hope that Ross had been eaten (or worse) a month before when Abraham Reyes, a revolutionary leader of a paramilitary group that had recently seized power in Nuevo Paraíso with John's help, had stolen an ancient mask from a holy Aztec temple. The mask (as John would later find out was called the 'Jade Veil of Blight Resurrection') was created as a cursed object that the Aztecs would present to their enemies under the pretense of it being a gift or sign of surrender. Once taken, all the dead of the land would come back to life and attack the group that held the object until it was returned to its rightful owners. When Abraham disturbed the ancient landmark and took the mask, hordes of the undead rose up and descended upon the populace of Nuevo Paraiso as well as New Austin and West Elizabeth… and maybe even the rest of the US for all John knew. It took him days, but John was eventually able to return the Jade Veil to the place where Reyes originally stole it from, thus ending the supernatural plague that had seized the land.

Bringing himself back to the task at hand, John reached for the butt of his gun, ready to pull a quick draw and take out as many of the men as he could before they put an end to his life. But then something happened... something that took them all by surprise. The black clouds that had formed overhead in the distance were all at once swallowing the sky above them, covering the men in a darkened embrace. A loud crackle of thunder seemed to shake the very ground beneath their feet and a collection of wolf howls could be heard nearby. These signature cries were not normal however, they had a certain demonic vibe to them that John remembered well. Before anyone could make a move one way or another, a pack of four undead animals attacked and began sinking their fangs into the soldiers and their horses. Chaos quickly ensued and John unholstered his Cattleman revolver and rapidly began unloading bullets into the heads of men and beasts alike.

"Goddamnit!" he yelled out angrily, retreating to the safe refuge of his barn as the dead men from the cavalry he had killed earlier began to rise and seek out human flesh as sustenance. The number would be overwhelming considering that the Marston family had shot and killed at least fifty men during the initial raid, and only a handful of those were from headshots.

His chest tightened as he climbed the unsteady rung to the hayloft above, the only sounds he could hear were a few more gunshots and the soul-tearing shrieks of men screaming their last breaths as they were being eaten alive.

The undead, while having a ferocious appetite and a powerful sense of smell that alerted them to a nearby food source, were not exactly as smart as they were when once alive. The befouled corpses knew how to run, how to hit and grab, how to chomp and chew... but they lost some of the more advanced motor skills, like the knowledge of how to climb a ladder or ride a horse.

The clouds hadn't advanced far enough East to completely blot out the sun and it shown its bright light into the upper loft as John swung one of the doors open to examine the state of his surroundings. It would have almost been a tranquil setting if it wasn't for the undead scurrying about beneath him and the dozens of freshly fallen beginning to right themselves and shamble through his property. Suddenly something caught his eye and he was all at once disappointed.

"Son of a bitch..." he cursed under his breath. One of the many walking dead that littered the ground was none other than Edgar Ross. It looked as if someone or something had ripped the man's throat out. John wasn't so much disappointed that Ross was dead as he was that he didn't get to do the deed himself, let alone even see it happen!

A thin smile lined his lips as he steadied the revolver on his forearm, pulled back the hammer spur and trained the front sight right between the eyes of the lumbering bureaucrat. John didn't really need to steady his firearm. Hell, he didn't even need to take such care with the aim, as the man could have easily just performed a quick-draw from his holster and hit a target square on at twice the distance of his current mark. The thing was, John _wanted_ to enjoy this... at least as much as he could, given the brooding circumstances. There was a cracking 'boom' that echoed through the air as the revolver discharged, the sound momentarily competing with the harrowing crash of thunder above, and John watched as Edgar's head whipped back to a degree that surly would have snapped his neck if he weren't already dead. The entry point was a glorious sight to see, but the exit wound was spectacular. John knew there was a fair share of morbidity and possibly even sin involved in the pleasure he derived from what he saw, but watching the back of Ross' scalp flap around like a piece of paper caught in the wind was something he had only been able to dream about before.

The corpse collapsed to the ground and the loud sound brought with it the unwanted attention of the surrounding dead. They began to swarm the barn, releasing moans and screeches along the way as they rose their hands up in a vain attempt to reach live prey. The distraction, as it turned out, was a blessing in disguise, as it cleared the area enough for John to plot an escape by quickly lowering himself to a distance safe enough to drop from and making a mad dash to one of the distraught horses that had been circling around since hysteria first stirred the area. Upon securing a steed, he spurred the animal toward the road, bursting through the line of undead that had begun chasing after him as soon as his feet hit the ground. The horse whinnied in fear as it came in contact with the bodies, but as they flew to the side the stallion kept to the course. John may not have had the slightest clue where his wife and son had ridden off to, but he knew where he could find the mask and the man responsible for once again throwing the land he loved into peril. It was, in a sense, his own fault though, as he was the one who told Seth Briars the whole story of how he had bested an old Aztec curse by putting the dead back to rest and restoring order. The treasure-seeking loon may have been a dirty, grave-robbing prospector, but every man needed a place to rest at night, and that stinky old coot had taken quite a liking to the old Baccus place. That was where Seth would be, that was where the mask would be and that was surely where John _needed_ to be.

* * *

As the small shack that sat on the property came into view, John was reminded of why he thought of the area as 'quaint'. Truth be told, if it wasn't for Jack, he probably wouldn't have even had any idea what that word meant... or that it existed. 'It means something is attractively unusual' Jack had answered when his father asked about the expression.

The words kept repeating in his head as he neared the building. 'Attractively unusual' would definitely be how John would describe the old Baccus place. It was nestled at the bottom of a hill and fairly secluded from the public eye. Back in the day it used to be the hideout for a group of moonshiners (hence the name) but was abandoned when they were caught and hanged for their crimes. Because of its out-of-the-way location, Mintie Cummings and Theodore Eaves, an interracial couple, had taken up residence on the property, thoroughly enjoying the ability to be in one another's company when such a pairing would have sent any community into an uproar and resulted in an unruly lynch mob. Unfortunately, it wasn't a mob that would split the couple up, but the wretched infestation of the undead from a month beforehand. John had saved Mintie when she became trapped in an abandoned house after taking shelter in it for the night and waking up to the place being surrounded by the hungry dead. As he escorted her to a safe town, she recalled of how he was the second man to save her from those 'things'. The first was Theodore, and it cost him his life.

It really came as no surprise to John to find that Seth had made himself at home in the shack during the ensuing chaos. The man was just as much of a charlatan as any snake oil salesman. Once the dust settled the first time around, Seth decided to stay at the abode as no one could contest ownership once Mintie left town. Mr. Briars had been an odd fellow since long before John met him, but even he was taken aback by just how cozy Seth was able to get with the undead. During the first disaster, he had lured a horde of them to his place and treated them far better than any living soul he had come in contact with and they, in turn, did not try to eat his flesh from his bones. They seemed docile, even, as they did not attack John either, despite Seth's attempts to sick a particular one on him.

As suspected, there was another gathering of brainless savages surrounding the crazed prospector and, much like before, Seth was dancing around erratically with one of them, the Jade Veil tied to his face with a length of twine. John was not in the mood for any of Seth's games and he meant to make that point very clear from the get-go. Six shots rang out, echoing across the pristine landscape and six bodies once again returned to their state of peaceful rot and decay.

"Don't even think about it," John commanded, jolting the reloaded gun cylinder back into place with a flick of his wrist.

A cowering, shivering Seth stopped dead in his motion at the warning as he reached for his revolver. Instead, he redirected his shaky hand upwards and slowly removed the mask, so he could see just who had ruined his party.

"Oh, hey- hey there John," Seth said with a slight feeling of relief. "If you fancied talkin' with me alone you coulda just pulled me to the side instead of removing all of my guests here." He looked around at the bodies encircling him, kicking at their feet and arms to see if maybe, just maybe, John had not completely killed all of them.

"Cut the shit, Seth. You know why I'm here, so just hand over the relic and we can call it a day. I'll go fix this whole mess… again."

"Fix this whole mess?" Seth stood up, appearing somewhat defiant to what his friend was suggesting. "Fix this whole mess? Don't you see what's goin' on here, John? It's beautiful! These are my kind of people! They don't judge me like the livin', they don't leave me like the livin'! They don't tell me what to do or care 'bout how bad I smell. I _like_ the world this way, John." He began to cackle a mad laugh that John was all too familiar with.

"I ain't kidding around!" John raised his revolver up again, aiming the barrel of the iron squarely at Seth's forehead. "My family is out there in this mess this time! For chrissakes, I need to put an end to this before it is too late for 'em!"

"Alright, alright!" Seth conceded, digging into his pants pocket. He dug his hand in so forcefully that he nearly lost his trousers around his ankles by pulling the material out from under the rope that tied it to his waist. Luckily for John, that worst case scenario did not pan out.

"Ah," Seth breathed, seeming content in finding whatever he was looking for. "Here you are, John. Do treat it with care, 'tis important to me," he said, holding a glass eye in his outstretched palm.

"What the hell is this?" John questioned, looking at the trinket being offered to him. The eye was a memento of the very last time John had accompanied Seth on one of his 'treasure hunts'. Seth was convinced that this one would be the one, the real deal, a trove of wealth beyond imagination. And, in the end, all it turned out to be was a Goddamn glass eye. During the first uprising of the dead, people had all kinds of theories about why it was happening and who was behind it. One of those theories was that the eye was causing it and Seth was to blame. It his typical foolish fashion, Seth had swallowed the eye without prompt or warning. John knew how he must have got it back… and he didn't want to touch the damn thing after that.

"Not the eye, you crazy bastard! The mask!"

Seth recoiled in fear, clutching both the mask and the eye to his chest in protest. "This here mask is mine, John, mine! It's making the world a better place… for me! Why it's-" Seth suddenly stopped, feeling an awkward sensation in his hands. Suddenly there was a sharp pain and he yelled out in disdain, dropping what he was holding. "Damn thing!"

The mask spilled to the ground and landed with a 'clink' sound as it bounced off a protruding rock. John's eyes widened in dread and he rushed towards the fallen artifact. He picked it up and a felt a quick and sudden sting across one of his fingers.

"Shit!" he grunted and hastily pulled his hand back while keep a firm grip on the mask with the other.

"Did it cut ya? It cut me."

John glanced at his finger and saw that it was indeed bleeding. "How the hell did it cut us?" he asked, his eyes glancing in the direction of the Jade Veil. What he saw almost made him drop the mask in astonishment. Smack dab in the middle of the green forehead was the damn glass eye. It looked as if it had been absorbed into the mask and… the thing was looking around like it was alive! "What'd you do, Seth?!"

"I ain't done nothin'!" Seth defended, making his way towards John and placing his hand on the other side of the mask to turn it his way for a better view. "I ain't done- well, would you lookit that."

Suddenly a white light began to emanate from the altered mask, pulsing from it. The light grew wider with each wave and before they could even begin to react, both John and Seth were enveloped in the glow. They couldn't see anything, they couldn't hear anything and neither of them knew how long it was going to last.

Time was not exactly something they could keep adequate track of in their circumstance, but it certainly didn't feel like long had passed before the waves began to dissipate, and the light with them. When they could see and hear again, the two found themselves in very different surroundings.


	3. …to the new West. (Re-Animator)

Herbert was in quite the predicament. All he ever wanted to do was _defeat_ death; to come up with a way to bring people back to life after all hope in the concept had been lost. But now he was being dragged to an uncertain doom. Not only that, but he was being dragged to his doom by what could only be described as a hulking growth of distended colon that had wrapped itself around his body like an anaconda would with its prey. He had sought only to conquer death, and instead, death would have the last laugh. One last, humiliating laugh.

In a way, he had attained his wish. The reanimation reagent he had spent years developing was finally ready for human testing. There were still some kinks to work out with the mixture overall, but it was ready for testing. Unfortunately, calculating the correct dosage turned out to be somewhat of a problem. The first test subject, a male, resulted in a gruesome display of the human body's adverse reaction to the serum when too large of a dose was administered. Every organ that could explode, exploded. The eyes ruptured in their sockets, the heart grew to a size that burst through the protective casing of the rib cage, and his brain expanded far greater than the confines of his skull allowed, causing the cerebellum to implode. It was a disaster… but Herbert also learned so much from it.

The following trials were an odd mixture of greater success and greater failure. One of the 'kinks' that still needed to be corrected in the serum was that when it brought something back (human or animal) it triggered them into a primal, aggressive state that there was no quick, easy fix for. This seemed to be the case with every single specimen, save for one: Dr. Carl Hill.

Dr. Hill and Herbert had butted heads as soon as the intellectually promising student arrived at Miskatonic University and began remarking how most of Hill's work and 'research' was nothing more than a derivative ripoff of another doctor's work. Herbert even went as far as to make that fact known to Hill's coworkers and the students that he taught. As the reanimation experiments continued and grew out of hand with their uncontrollable results, Dr. Hill put two and two together and figured out that Herbert had somehow achieved an insurmountable feat: the apparent reverse of complete brain death. The good doctor had planned to blackmail his defiant student and take credit for the world changing discovery himself. It may have worked too... if Herbert hadn't killed him and subsequently revived him moments later.

Much to Herbert's surprise, Dr. Hill acted unlike any specimen before him. He wasn't just alive, he was cognizant! Hill recognized his former student, he talked to him even... and then he managed to knock out the younger doctor and steal his notes and remaining reagent serum.

When Herbert was able to track him down to the University morgue, they had one final showdown where he decided that he would try out a theory and dispatch his adversary all in one go. It wasn't as easy as Herbert had thought it would be, because Hill had a little plan of his own in store for the budding student. Utilizing all of his medical knowledge (which included an extensive study of the art of hypnotherapy), the newly-acquired reagent and a laser surgical drill of his own design, Hill was able to alter a reanimated corpse's brain functions and bring them under his complete control. In the time it took for him to be found, the doctor had created an army of ten reanimated monsters to rise and fight for him.

Almost falling victim to becoming nothing more than a drooling servant of Hill himself, Herbert was able to turn the tables when one of the undead broke free from the mind-control it had been under and began causing havoc that even Hill could not subdue. With their master distracted, Herbert slipped from the clutches of the reanimated army and put his plan into action. The idea was to pump so much reagent into Hill's body that it would induce the same adverse reaction he had experienced during his initial human attempt. The overdose worked wonderfully, but perhaps it had worked _too_ wonderfully.

Hill's body began to pulsate and shake as the fluid flowed through his body and Herbert couldn't help but stare at what was taking place. He was simply in awe of what was before him. Not more than a moment later, there was a grotesque outline of something trying to push its way out of the abdominal area, much like the outline a baby's small hand or foot would make as they moved around in their mother's tummy, and suddenly a length of colon shot out and wrapped itself around Herbert's face before he could dash back and out of reach. It pulled him down and lassoed him in a tight grip he had no hope of escaping. As the overly-large intestine began to drag the helpless doctor back to whence it came, Hill's chest violently exploded open, spewing forth the vast majority of his insides and leaving an empty crater behind.

The reanimated that were once under Hill's control began to act of their own, aggressive accord as soon as the doctor's head was crushed by the original rogue reanimated, releasing whatever hold he had on them. They began to wildly attack anything and everything. The equipment in the morgue, cleaning supplies above the sinks, even Daniel Cain and Megan Halsey, two individuals who were unfortunately pulled into the whole chaotic mess thanks to Herbert. One of the stumbling undead managed to knock over several chemical vials, the resulting mixture formed into a white gas that began to expand rapidly and caused a burning sensation in the eyes and lungs of all exposed. Another of Hill's abominations tore at the wires in an electrical box and electrocuted itself, sending wisps of burned flesh and smoke into the toxic gas that was just released while plunging the room into a near-utter darkness. As Dan and Megan attempted to escape, Herbert managed to grab the bag that contained his notes and last few bottles of his reagent. Even if he was going to die, he would not allow his life's work to.

"My notes!" he yelled as he clumsily threw the bag in the couple's direction.

It was at that same moment that a bright light flashed in the room and suddenly there were two newcomers who just appeared out of thin air.

* * *

John and Seth went from a familiar setting to a pure white place of seeming nonexistence to... well, they weren't really sure where they ended up. As their vision returned all they could see was a foggy haze and shadows that danced madly from place to place somewhere in the distance. No sooner than they had arrived, something flew through the air and hit Seth directly in the side of the head. He staggered back, releasing his hold on the mask and raising his right hand to the area that had been hit. John was in a bit of a daze as to what was happening in front of him. His brain was trying to figure out what _had_ happened before it could process what _was_ happening. After seeing his surroundings and Seth being hit with something and moving away from him, his hearing came back... but, oh God, did he wish it hadn't. His ears were greeted with shrill screams that made him wince in pain and unsettling moans of discord. The sounds were only underlined by the distinct smell of burnt flesh and some unknown chemicals that were trickling up his nose and down his throat, stinging him immediately.

"What the hell's goin' on, John? Where- where the hell are we?" Seth yelled, sounding extremely alarmed and waving an open hand back and forth in front of his face in a vain effort to clear the tainted air. If the situation wasn't bad enough on its own, Seth's high-pitched screech would have done plenty well to unsettle John's soul.

The gunfighter began to shake his head, looking down at the Jade Veil mask in his hand. "I don't-" He stopped in mid-sentence when someone or something scurried between them and quickly grabbed the thing that had smashed into Seth's head. Instinctually, John moved his free hand to the handle of his revolver, but whatever it was was gone with the item in tow.

"John! John!" Seth began to shout in a heightened panic.

John's eyes flashed back up to his friend and he was shocked to see him being attacked by two people. One, a rather tall black man with all kinds of tubes and needles attached to him, had his arm wrapped around Seth's neck and was beginning to cut off all oxygen, and the other, a man who looked like over half of his body had been badly burned in a fire, was pulling on the prospector's arm and scratching at it so fiercely that it was drawing blood. John quickly unholstered his gun and tried to take aim, but everything was so foggy and chaotic that he didn't want to chance shooting Seth will all the movement. The smoke was pricking at his eyes as well and he had to focus.

"Partner, help!" Seth screeched again. "Partn-" His words were cut short as the burnt man reached up and latched onto Seth's open mouth with two fingers. He pulled forcefully and with a sickening, wet sound of skin tearing, Seth's cheek had been ripped clean off. The old grave-robber howled out in pain as blood began to flow and John witnessed more of his friend's rotted teeth than he ever would have wanted to see.

The gunslinger faltered for a moment at the horrendous vision in front of him before shaking himself out of the shocked state and aiming his pistol. Less than a moment later he shot at the black man and hit him square in the left temple, leaving the bullet and a fair amount of gray matter to explode out of the right side. The man released one last grunt and fell to the side, pulling Seth along with him. As he fell, Seth's head connected with the pointy edge of a metallic cleaning station, leaving a sizable chunk of flesh and hair on the sharp corner. Both bodies hit the floor with a disturbing sound, one that mimicked mud splattering against a board, one that, much to his disdain, John heard over the deafening noise of the room. The burnt assailant looked at his fallen comrade for a moment before darting his head towards John and appearing as if he was going to advance. Another pull of the gun trigger and a bullet tore into the man's shoulder and he immediately began to scamper away.

Already fully aware of what the outcome would be, John made his way to the downed Seth and knelt before him. His eyes were open, staring blankly up into John's. There wasn't even a reason to check for a pulse.

"I'm sorry, Seth. That was no way to go out for a man like you," he mourned in a soft voice, resting his hand on his friend's face and pulling down slightly to shut his eyelids. "You weren't a great friend, you might have even tried to stab me in the back a time or two you crazy, old fool... but you were a friend, I suppose... and I don't have many of those left these days." He sighed and looked around for a moment. "Especially wherever the hell I am now." He gripped the Jade Veil tightly in his hand momentarily, recalling that even if Seth was gone, it was his own undoing. "You damned crazy, old fool. If only you- why did you have to be so..."

It was of no use to chastise the dead and John shook his head, dismissing his odd mixture of regret and anger at his loss. There would be time to further grieve or curse Seth's name, but now was not the time or place for it.

A muffled sound rose above the rest of the commotion, pulling John's attention to the other end of the room.

"Helff! Helff me! Fumone helff!"

He stood, stashing the mask into one of the over-sized pockets in his duster but keeping his revolver in-hand just in case Mr. Crispy or any of his friends decided to try to rip his cheek off. As he tucked the mask into his pocket, he pulled a handkerchief free from under it and held the cloth to his face, making sure to at least cover his nose and as much of his mouth as he could. It may not have been the best filter in the world, but it was a godsend at the time.

"What- what the hell?" John choked out in surprise upon the sight he was greeted with as he followed the sound of the muffled voice's grunts.

* * *

Herbert was laying on the ground, one hand firmly latched onto the side-rail of an overturned gurney and the other still desperately trying to pry the tail of human intestine from his face. The colon was still attempting to drag him back to Hill's body, but the doctor would be damned if he would go easy. Suddenly the sounds of yelling and a gunshot rang through the already-tumultuous room. It was shortly followed by another gunshot. Herbert's mind began to spin. Had the morgue security guard carried a firearm? Yes, he supposed he did, but where the hell did he even come from? Herbert hadn't seen him when he first arrived, but... well, who else could it be?

"Help!" he tried to yell, but the message came out somewhat mangled through his stifled mouth. He continued to cry out, unabated. "Help me! Someone help!"

He continued grunting and trying to resist the pull of the distended innards and it didn't take more than a minute before the doctor saw the outline of a human body approaching though the smokescreen of chemical fog, but was it help or just another of Hill's abominations? As the figure neared further, he could see that it was someone who he did not recognize at all. It wasn't a reanimate, nor was it Dan, Meg or even the useless security guard. It was someone dressed up as a... cowboy? He was holding a gun that looked like it came right out of some old Wild West movie and the man was decorated in full-on bronco garb. There was the classic high-crowned, wide-brimmed hat atop his head and a long, battered tan coat draping over his body. It wasn't buttoned, and Herbert could see a vest and shirt underneath, as well two belts strapped to his midsection. One was holding up his pants and the other, which sat more loosely than the first, was sporting an empty gun holster and a near-empty collection of cartridge loops right next to it. God, was he hallucinating now? Wouldn't that just top it all off. Regardless of whether it was an illusion or not, Herbert reached up to the man in a vain hope of help.

John didn't respond with the offering of his hand in return immediately, as he was still trying to understand exactly what he was seeing. He observed Herbert laying flat on the ground with... something wrapped around the length of his body. That 'something' just so happened to trace back to a headless body propped up against a wall. John had seen some crazy things in his time, especially after the dead crawled from their graves, but this was the weirdest thing he had ever witnessed... by a long shot.

A covered yell of surprise escaped Herbert as he was yanked forward with renewed vigor by the intestines. With his hand raised, he had no means to resist the tug of the determined organ and it was quickening its pace without opposition.

The sudden burst of movement was enough to jolt John from his trance. He lowered his weapon and took aim at the fleshy tentacle, but then hesitated. Was this really something he should be spending a bullet on? After all, he had no idea where he was or how he could get more ammunition if the need arose. He had four in the cylinder, one left in the front cartridge loops and a full-set of seven in the back loops. Twelve bullets total. Even with well-aimed shots, that was only twelve targets he could reliably take out from a distance. Carrying extra ammo was not something he was concerned with when he set out in search of Seth. He knew there would have been plenty of bullets available from the undead he encountered on his path or the half-eaten bodies of fallen victims of the pandemic. But now? Well shit... he didn't have the faintest idea.

There was another violent yank and Herbert was pulled even closer to Hill's convulsing body. He began to wonder if this stranger was just going to stand there and watch as he was dragged to whatever fate await him inside that open chest cavity. He wanted to yell, he wanted to shout, but all he could do was frantically wave both arms and attempt to make some audible sound from his enveloped mouth.

John breathed out a sigh of frustration and holstered his gun. There was no need to spend a bullet on something he could just as easily do in a more hands-on way. As he made his way to the man, he reached to the other side of his gunbelt and unsheathed a large Bowie knife. He placed a booted-heel on the length of fleshy cord and he could feel it try to squirm away under his weight.

Watching as the cowboy held the blade in his hand and slashed in a downward motion, Herbert felt the grip on his body loosen substantially and he was able to wiggle and flail his way out of the wrapping mere moments later. There was a wet splat sound that kept repeating as the end on intestine still connected to Hill was rapidly tapping against the ground, leaking blood and... colon matter.

"Disgusting," Herbert lamented as he made it to his feet. He kicked at the writhing collection of tissue and immediately cried out and clutched at his side.

"Hey, hey you alright, mister?" John questioned, slowly making his way towards him with a hand cautiously outstretched, the Bowie knife still visible in the other. He was offering his handkerchief.

The doctor sucked in a breath of air that only caused the pain in his side to flare once more. "Oh, Jesus!" he hissed, snatching the cloth far more irritably than he had ever intended to. "No, no, I'm fine... I hope. Just a case of bruised ribs." There was another jolt of agony. "Maybe broken," he grunted out in discomfort, moving the hankie to his mouth. With his free hand, he briefly ran his fingers over his sore side, applying only nominal pressure and wincing at the pain. His first instinct was right, his ribs were merely bruised, maybe fractured, but certainly not broken.

"Gonna be alright?"

There was a slight relief when Herbert watched John slide the huge knife back into its holding spot on his belt. "I'll survive, thank you. You..." He wasn't exactly sure how to finish his sentence. He had never had anyone... "You saved my life."

"I've been known to do that a time or two for folk," the gunslinger modestly admitted, grabbing at a random piece of fabric and once again covering his mouth. "You mind telling me what the hell is going on here? I mean, what the hell was that thing?"

"Um..." Herbert was slightly thrown. He couldn't very well explain the situation and expect the stranger to not think he was crazy. "Perhaps this isn't the best time."

A well-timed low groan from somewhere in the mist only seemed to punctuate his point. Hill's minions were still on the loose and the air was not exactly safe to breath. He had his own questions that he wanted to ask John, but he would have to heed his own words and hold off on them.

"Fine, fine," John murmured while looking toward the room's exit. "What's your name?"

"Herbert. Herbert West. And yours?"

"John Marston. How about you lead the way outta here, Mr. West. I got people I need to find."

The words jarred Herbert's memory, and he realized he too had someone he needed to find. Dan may have made it out alright... then again, he might not have. Just as importantly, he had his notes.


	4. Reunited and it feels so... oh, shit.

"It's this way." Herbert motioned to the door and immediately seized in pain.

"Maybe I'll lead," John said, placing his hand under the injured man's arm to steady him. "You just tell me where to go."

The two continued along the way, Herbert slowly quickening his pace as the pain became slightly more bearable. After exiting the morgue, they turned to the right and were greeted with the sight of the elevator about twenty-five feet away from them... and two dead bodies in front of it, one of which John recognized as Mr. Crispy.

"Come on," Herbert commanded, taking the lead. "We'll take the elevator. It'll be faster... especially in my condition."

John hesitated for a moment and then reluctantly began to follow. "An elevator, huh? I've heard of 'em, but never ridden in one a 'em," he admitted, somewhat sheepishly.

The doctor stopped in his tracks and looked back at the gunslinger with a display of disbelief written on his face. "You've never been on an elevator?" he finally questioned. "What, were you born in the stone age or something?" Herbert made the statement more out of ridicule than as a joke. He hardly ever joked (as John would soon find out) and when he did, it was disturbingly quirky.

He pressed the call button, not waiting for a reply from John, and he didn't get one anyway.

They waited and waited, but the elevator doors never opened. After a few minutes of nothing, the sound of breaking glass and encroaching moans could be heard coming from the morgue.

"Oh hell... we'll have to take the stairs anyway, it seems." Herbert sighed and then directed his cohort to the stairwell.

They had only made it to the second landing, slowed by Herbert's hobbled pace as the pain in his side flared with renewed vigor with every stair he tackled, when a sound stopped them. With the two directly between the basement and first floor, they heard the loud crash of the basement entrance door slamming into the wall and a horrifying scream accompanying it. Something was following them.

"Quick! We have to hurry!" Herbert yelled in a panic, clutching at his side, but John turned around to face the descending set of stairs and stood his ground.

"What are you-" the doctor began, but his words were cut short by a deafening, echoing 'boom' from John's gun.

He had made a quick-draw just as soon as he caught sight of a blonde-haired woman rushing up the stairs. There was a stream of blood oozing from her mouth, and as soon as John fired a shot into her skull, there was a steady stream of blood flowing from that hole as well. She fell backwards, making a slapping sound as her naked flesh connected with the cold concrete steps. She slid down a few before coming to a complete stop and not getting back up.

"There. No rush now," John calmly commented. "As you were, doctor. As you were."

Herbert couldn't tell if he was trying to make light of their situation or not, but he continued his path upstairs nonetheless. Even though he would never admit it out loud, he found John's unwavering actions quite fearless and interesting. Never before had he met a man who had seemingly been thrown into chaos and greeted it with a stoic face. There was another thing he was trying to pinpoint about John: his voice. It sounded... it sounded gruff and hoarse. Almost as if he had sucked in a grand helping of sand and his voice came out all ragged as a result.

 _What would a woman call it?_ he pondered as he ascended each step. _Husky? Yes, they would undoubtedly say he had a husky voice. Women always fall for that kind of thing._

* * *

The duo made it to the top of the stairs and Herbert checked the situation they were about to enter by attempting to slyly peek through the glass pane of the door. The scene on the other side was nothing short of disorderly. People were yelling, some were screaming, and almost everyone in a set of scrubs was running around like chickens with their heads cut off. The fire alarm was blaring and that was one of the only things Herbert was thankful for. It very likely masked the sound of the gunshot that dispatched Hill's monster in the stairwell.

"Just keep calm, act normal and follow me," the doctor requested, turning his head to the side in time to see John nod in understanding. Herbert wondered if it really mattered either way. People would be bound to take notice of John simply because of how he was dressed. It wasn't Halloween, they weren't in a rural area and there were no more real cowboys in the world. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open, exiting into the ER. Their arrival went largely unnoticed, and those who did see them were more interested in making their way to the elevator, where an already swelling group of people had collected.

Herbert's mind instantly went to Dan... and his notes. Had something happened in the elevator? Were Dan and Meg even still alive? Why was everyone just standing there?

Suddenly, a woman who had just approached let out a scream and seemingly fainted on the spot. Herbert ran over to the crowd, completely ignoring his pain. Not out of concern for the woman, but simply because he had to see what had snared everyone's attention. After frantically pushing and squirming his way through the horde, the doctor was greeted with the sight of open elevator doors that showcased a canvas of horror inside. There were long jets of blood splattered on the walls and a bloodied fire ax lay discarded in the corner, but the real gem that caught Herbert's eye was what was in the middle of the elevator floor. A burnt, detached arm lay writhing on the linoleum, its hand still grasping for something that simply wasn't there anymore. Somehow the reagent had sustained life in a single appendage when the rest of the body was sprawled out in the basement... quite dead. Again.

 _Parts..._ Herbert thought to himself with a small smile lining his lips. _We are all just a collection of moving parts._

"Jesus Christ! It don't have a body! How's it doin' that?" John hoarsely spat out, startling Herbert out of his daze while also voicing a thought that must have been running through the minds of almost everyone who was witnessing it.

It was then that the two noticed tufts of smoke and chemical fog rising up from the small slit where the elevator door opened. The mess in the basement would be discovered sooner rather than later.

Herbert's ears twitched at the oh-so-familiar sounds of a panicked ER room, a team desperately trying to save a patient, not too far away from them. He silently shook John's shoulder and motioned for him to follow.

As they ventured further down the hall, John observed Herbert snake his head around each doorway to take a peek in every room. "What're you looking for?" he finally questioned out of curiosity.

"Not 'what', but 'who'," Herbert corrected, not even bothering to look back at the gunslinger. "The elevator left a bad feeling in my stomach. If something happened to Dan or Meg, they would surely be in one of these rooms."

John smirked, once again displaying his affable, caustic attitude. "If they smell anything like you right now, we shouldn't have any trouble findin' 'em."

As much as he wanted to, the doctor couldn't ignore that statement quite as much as he could the others. Passersby were giving him disgusted looks and some went as far as to hold their nose in the process as well. Trying as hard as he could to remain looking as sophisticated as possible, Herbert tugged on his coat and sniffed at it. As he had feared, it smelled like fecal matter. It made sense, though, as it had the most contact with Hill's... colon. Well, his pants did as well, but he wouldn't dare disrobe in public. Leisurely, he took his coat off and dropped it into one of the empty chairs that they passed in the hall. No more than a few seconds later, he leaned over and reached for the white lab coat hanging on the back of a chair near the nurses station. The fact that he didn't even break his stride while doing any of this slightly impressed John as he watched it all transpire. The man was on a mission, and he wouldn't even let little side trips truly pull him from his path.

Herbert stopped suddenly as he peered into another room. "Oh no," he whispered and tightly griped the door handle. "Dan!" he yelled as he pulled the door open.

Dan, who was wearing a blood-stained white tank top and dark blue jeans, paid the doctor no mind. He was leaning over a scantily-clad blonde woman on a gurney. Her clothing was blood-stained as well and she did not appear to be breathing. Dan was holding a syringe to the back of her neck, getting ready to inject some sort of bright green, glowing liquid.

"Dan! Stop!" Herbert yelled again, taking a few frantic steps into the room with John right behind him.

The gunslinger was curious as to what was going on, but he knew that silence was sometimes golden in situations such as this.

Once again ignoring what his friend was yelling to him, Dan plunged the needle into the woman's neck and administered the entirety of the needle's contents into her.

John watched as Herbert stomped his way over to Dan, who still had yet to say a word, and took a bottle of the glowing green liquid from him. He stuffed it into some sort of medicine bag and began to berate his 'friend'.

John did his best to focus in on what the two were saying, but they seemed to be speaking in heightened whispers. He also wanted to check on the girl, see if she was alive or not... but he was fairly distracted. His eyes were fluttering around the room at a mile a minute. To him, the place _looked_ like it should be a place of healing, a hospital of sorts... but there were countless things he had never seen before. Wires coming out of metal panels in the walls, boxes that made beeping sounds and had some sort of vivid, perhaps even living, light flashing across it. Even in his uncertain state, John was marveled by what he was witnessing. West Elizabeth this place was certainly not.

It wasn't long after Herbert and Dan began exchanging words, maybe a mere twenty seconds, before a blood-curdling scream escaped the girl and her body started convulsing wildly.

Dan quickly went to be by her side while Herbert calmly began to walk backwards towards the room's exit, his face as stern as ever.

"Meg! Meg you're alive!" Dan began, almost as if he couldn't believe what he had seen happen time and time again had happened for his beloved. "You're-" His words were quickly cut short when a snarling Meg reached up and slashed at his face fiercely with her hand. She had managed to catch his cheek and made a cut that immediately began to bleed.

John drew his revolver, readying himself to dispatch of the crazed woman by knocking her unconscious with the butt of his gun, but a hand grabbed ahold of his forearm and stopped him. It was Herbert.

Medical staff began to flood into the room and once again the doctor beckoned the gunslinger to follow his lead.

"What in the hell is going on?" Marston asked, his hand slightly hovering over the reholstered gun on his hip.

Herbert clutched the medical bag close to his chest while responding, keeping his eyes fixed on the chaos unfolding in front of them. "Come on, we have to go."

"Go? Go where? What about your friends here? Aren't you even worr-"

"We have to go – now!" Herbert insisted through a harsh whisper, finally turning to face his new associate. "I wanted to get my notes, my research, my serum!" He held the bag up and shook it slightly for emphasis. "And Dan, too, but he..." Herbert peered over his shoulder and watched as some of the male staff restrained a maniacally laughing Dan while the other half attended to Meg. Both were acting uncooperative. "He's too far gone right now."

"So help him! He's your friend, right?" John persisted, grabbing Herbert by the upper arm as he tried to leave again. John couldn't imagine abandoning those he cared for in such a situation and the fact that Herbert could was just mind-boggling to him. Mind-boggling and enraging.

"Right now he is nothing but a liability! One we _cannot_ afford! If he was in his right mind then, yes, I would do all I could to help him. Maybe. But now? Now all we can do is hope the whole mess downstairs is blamed on those two." He was almost hissing his words in anger now as his eyes darted back and forth from the chaos at the other end of the room back to John.

John stepped back, somewhat aghast. "What is wrong with you? Don't you have a soul?"

"My brain wins out over my soul, John, and yours should, too. What do you think is going to happen to us, _all_ of us, when they discover the massacre in the basement, hmm? Do you have a plausible, sane explanation for that?"

John opened his mouth to reply, but he had no words to counter the man's question. All at once his mind was consumed with the dead body of his friend. What would happen to Seth? He didn't even give that a second thought at first, the confusion and adrenaline rushing through his veins wouldn't allow it. Things weren't exactly 'calm' at the moment, either, but he had time to breath, to think things through instead of rushing for his life. If there was one thing that clearly stuck out for John, it was that he was far removed from his home, from his family. This land was foreign to him. He had no idea how to traverse it... and because of that, he needed Herbert. As much as he hated to admit any form of dependency save for his family, he needed this stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I know some Re-Animator fans who are reading this are probably a little confused by how I had Herbert act in regards to his friendship with Dan, but that is truly the way their partnership seemed to me in the first film. Herbert is very manipulative and self-centered. That's just the kind of character he is. Everything he did in the Re-Animator, he did for himself. Dan was nothing more to him than a lab lackey puppet who he could control.


	5. House of cards

The pale-yellow Hyundai Pony drove down the road at a speed just inching over the posted limit, the two passengers inside looked distressed. Herbert seemed quite paranoid as he drove, continually checking all three mirrors to make sure no one was following them, and John just appeared very uncomfortable to be in such a confined, moving space. No matter how he twisted, the cowboy simply couldn't find a satisfying spot in his seat. This was, undoubtedly, another reason why John would likely never get too used to the idea of automobiles replacing horses as a main mode of transportation. They were just too different for him to adjust to.

John's constant fidgeting was a slight distraction to Herbert, but it only served to irritate him more than anything.

"Would you stop?" he finally demanded.

"Can't help it," John grumbled in his defense. "Feel like this thing's closin' in on me or something."

The three-door hatchback was small, there was no denying that, and John was a big individual... or at least bigger than Herbert, so he could understand the man's concerns to a point.

"Well, it's not, so just... calm down."

"What happened to that girl back there?" John asked suddenly, switching subjects without warning and causing Herbert discomfort with the matter entirely. After a moment of silence, John continued, "I mean, she looked dead, she really did, but then she jumped up, actin' crazier than a rat trapped in a tin shithouse! It was like she was wild or rabid or somethin'."

Herbert began to chuckle, and even as harmless as it was, the action gave John goosebumps for some reason.

"Rabid. That's a good way to describe it, I suppose." He looked over at John, trying to read the man to see if he could indeed handle the truth. He sighed, but there was a quirky smile on his face as he did so. "I guess you've seen the various results already, so telling you the whole story shouldn't come as much more of a shock. Do you remember that green serum Dan shot into Meg's neck before she came back?"

After John silently nodded, Herbert went on to explain the entire story to him in great detail (and great pride when it came to his reagent).

There was an agonizingly long and awkward silence after Herbert had finished his tale. John wasn't exactly sure how to respond. 'Crazy,' was the first word that came to his mind, but he quickly dismissed the thought when he remembered not only what he had witnessed in the morgue, the elevator and the emergency room, but also all of the horrors he had laid eyes on back home. He had seen the human (and animal, for that matter) undead stalk the earth well before he came into contact with the good doctor, and that was only the tip of the iceberg. As crazy as Herbert's tale was, John was sure he could one-up him with his accounts of how hell had seemingly opened up in his part of the world not too long ago. He had come into contact with all four horses of the Apocalypse (though not the horsemen, thankfully), killed a chupacabra and a herd of sasquatch, met an ancient Aztec Goddess... and even tamed and rode a unicorn (but that last one was something he would likely never share with anyone).

Finally, John decided he had to at least say _something_ ; quick glances in Herbert's direction revealed a look of expectation written all over the man's face. "Well, that's a, uh... that's..." he painfully stumbled until he found something random to grasp onto. "This here's a mighty nice motorcar. Mighty nice. Certainly much nicer than the rickety thing I was in when hunting down Dut-" He stopped himself before he began to spin a long yarn. "Certainly better than the one I was in before...even if it is a little small for my taste. I prefer ridin' a horse anyway, but hey, this is your show."

Herbert stared at the gunslinger awkwardly for a moment before narrowing his sights back onto the road. "A horse wouldn't move nearly as fast as we would need it to. Besides, people haven't used those things for mass transportation for decades, John. I'm sure the police will be at Dan's place in no time, and I want us to be gone well before that happens. I just have to... pick a few things up."

There was another moment of silence before Herbert spoke again. "A _motorcar_?" he mocked. "The last time I heard anyone say that was my Grandmother..."

John didn't respond and, even if he had, Herbert likely wouldn't have heard him anyway. His head began flowing with thoughts and concerns directly after his snide snippet. Concentrating on such a silly thing as driving was an absurd waste of time and he would certainly have had Dan do the task if he were in their company. Alas, he was not, and when Herbert asked John to drive, the gunslinger simply shrugged his shoulders and (unsurprisingly) stated that he had 'no idea how to work that thing'. Left with no choice and little time to argue the matter, the doctor simply released a huff of discontent and got into the driver's seat. Still, he couldn't have John keep distracting him by wiggling around in his seat or bringing up uncomfortable conversation points, so Herbert reached down and clicked on the radio to try to entertain the man. Besides, catching any breaking news concerning the hospital and the incidents that occurred there was something he himself was morbidly interested in. As he feverishly shifted through stations, listening for one that sounded like news, John's face twisted into astonishment. The man simply couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"There's- there's people in there? Talking?"

A groan of dissatisfaction escaped Herbert. "Now I know you must be pulling my leg. I don't get it, though. Why? Why are you continuing to act like this with the predicament we're in? It's time to drop the cowboy stint, John. How did you and... your friend end up in the morgue, anyway?"

John thought for a moment, not exactly sure what the doctor meant or how to answer his latter question.

"What year is it?" he finally probed. A concern that he was not only far removed from home, but possibly somehow in another time entirely had been floating around in the back of his head ever since seeing all of the things he had in the ER room. The car, radio and all of the other new thingamabobs he had observed only furthered his anxiety.

"What?" Herbert was confused by the absurdity of the question. "How does it matter what year it-"

"If it ain't 1911, then I think I'm in some deep shit here."

Herbert stopped the car in the middle of the street, wholly in awe of his passenger. It wasn't a gentle, rolling stop either, but more of a screeching-tires, jolting-you-forward-in-your-seat kind of stop. "You're completely delusional aren't you?" There was a twisted smile on his face as he asked.

Again, John had no idea how to answer. "L-look," he stammered, his eyes shifting all over the place as the very rare feeling of panic began to set in, "all I know is that the undead were unleashed again, I needed to find my family and the only person who could help me put a stop to it was the exact same person who made it start over: Seth. The darn fool somehow put that damn glass eye in the mask and next thing I know we were at your morgue and Seth was getting his face ripped off."

Herbert didn't know where to begin. There was so much of interest in the rambling mess that John had just spilled before him. "Perhaps 'insane' would have been a better word for you," he finally said, appearing fairly leery of his passenger.

"I'm not insane!" John insisted through a raised voice. "Or delusional! Or anything else you might be thinkin'. I just... need to get home." His words trailed off at the end, and the somber tone his voice turned to with them would have pried at anyone's heart. Anyone's, that is, aside from Herbert's.

"Well, home is a long _time_ from now, I'm afraid. It's 1985, John."

A look of shock spread over the gunslinger's face and the only words he could find to accompany it were, "19... 1985?" He felt as if his mind went blank, because those four little numbers not only occupied his mouth, but they were all he could think of. Abigail wouldn't be alive in 1985, Jack wouldn't be alive in 1985, and John was certain that he himself _shouldn't_ have been alive in 1985. He was far away from home in more ways than he knew how to comprehend.

Herbert, still fully in disbelief of his passenger's story, watched as a range of emotions swept across John's face. Even though the man remained as silent as a mouse, Herbert examined John's every move and facial expression with great scrutiny. He was either truly going through some sort of inner turmoil at the news of what year it was or the man was stalling for time, unsure of what to fabricate next. The doctor was certain it was the second option. He was so certain, in fact, that he decided to test just how far he could push the whole subject until the facade came tumbling down like a house of cards. Herbert broke from his intense, stern stare and began to drive down the road again, fairly certain that while the cowboy was quite psychotic, he was harmless for the time being.

Aside from the quite murmurings from the radio (which did not consist of one mention of Miskatonic University hospital, much to Herbert's dismay), the rest of the ride to Dan's home was quite quiet. John was still trying to come to terms with how he was seventy-four years removed from his home, from his family, from his time, and the good doctor was plotting exactly how he could push the gunslinger back into some form of reality. He needed John. He might not later on, but he undoubtedly did right now. With Dan out of the picture and things steadily falling apart before his eyes, Herbert couldn't get everything set and ready for his departure without at least an extra set of hands.

* * *

After making it to the apartment and taking a few ibuprofen to counteract his intermittent rib pain (which had spiked significantly with the sitting and standing motions of the car ride), Herbert frantically rushed from room to room, downstairs to upstairs, gathering everything that he could so that it could all be moved somewhere safe. Figuring out where 'somewhere' was would be a problem he would have to deal with later. He didn't even want to leave as much as a note for the police to discover upon their arrival at the residence. He had paid his monthly rent to Dan in cold, hard cash for a reason – no paper trail, and he certainly wasn't going to absentmindedly leave one after what happened tonight, either.

The plan for John to help him make a quick, clean sweep of the house had all but stalled the moment John took a seat on the couch right after entering the house and never stood up again, despite Herbert's numerous requests for help. John's face had lost all emotion, and he just stared a hole into the floor while remaining silent.

It took almost twenty minutes before the man finally said anything.

"How far away are we from West Elizabeth?" he asked Herbert, spooking the doctor as he quickly walked passed him with an overflowing box of glass beakers and test tubes.

"And so it speaks again," Herbert quipped as he set the box on the floor near the couch. John didn't respond, simply staring at the man while waiting for an answer.

The doctor let out a small laugh, beginning to understand that John was truly a man of few words and rarely repeated himself. "You said West Elizabeth? What state is that in?"

"It isn't in a state- it _is_ a state."

Herbert began a full-on laugh this time around. "There is no West Elizabeth state. There never has been."

"Bullshit," John countered. "It's one of the Western border states, right next to New Austin and just above Nuevo Paraiso, Mexico."

"Well, I'll give you credit for being imaginative enough to come up with some geography to go along with your stories, but we both know that none of those places exist, John, nor have they ever. Even if they did, we'd be pretty far away from any Western border state considering we're in the upper East coast of the U.S."

There was a moment of silence before Herbert continued, clearly reading the confusion on his companion's face. "We're in Arkham, Massachusetts. You did know that, right?"

"No!" John spat out in frustration. "I ain't never heard-uh that place! Goddammit! None of this makes sense!"

And with his sudden outburst, Herbert felt that the house of cards that John had built for himself was indeed beginning to tumble down.

Both men were silent for a long time and simply stared at each other. John finally spoke up, trying to bring up something else entirely.

"You know you- you got a hole in your head, right, doc?"

Herbert's eyes widened slightly. He had completely forgotten that Hill had began to lobotomize him in the morgue when his army of minions had the upper hand. He touched the area and immediately winced in pain. It wasn't bleeding, the laser drill had cauterized the wound as it bore through his flesh, but it still stung like a son of a bitch. He went to find a band-aid to put over the lesion and ended up coming out of the bathroom with the entire box, stuffing them into his medical bag moments later. "Can't be too safe," he mentioned, looking back at John.

Going back to his 'falling house' analogy, Herbert couldn't help but test how fast it could fall with a little more prodding. "Um, John, what did you mean earlier when you said the undead were unleashed again?"

The gunslinger began to explain his story, but only made it a little way in before the doctor interrupted him with his irritating laugh of ridicule. "Seriously, John... if that even is your real name, how long did it take you to come up with this whole absurd world of yours? It's really quite involved."

"Do you really think it's a smart choice to keep rufflin' a man who has a loaded six-shooter, Mr. West? 'Specially when the man in question may be _delusional_ ," John said the word mockingly, "and have an itchy trigger finger?"

Herbert swallowed quite noticeably and moved awkwardly, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. "What I meant to say was – do you have any proof that anything you've been telling me is true?"

"Well..." John stood up and reached into his pocket, "'side from myself, I do have this." He began to remove his hand from the pouch in the side of his duster and stopped momentarily, doubtful if he should be doing what he was planning on.

"You have what?" Herbert asked, taking note that John was hesitating for some reason.

Releasing a heavy sigh, John pulled the altered Jade Veil free from his pocket and held it out in front of the doctor.

"Oh my, a mask with an eye..." Herbert rolled his eyes and stepped a little closer.

The glass eye suddenly began to move around, as if it was inspecting its surroundings, and then it centered in on the approaching Mr. West.

When he realized what was happening, Herbert stopped dead in his tracks. He moved slightly to the right, the eye followed. He moved slightly to the left, the eye followed. "How are you making it do that?" he inquired, seeing that John could clearly not be manipulating it with his hand from how he was holding it.

"I'm not," John answered honestly. "Damn thing does it on its own!" While he was still with Herbert in the moment, his voice was slightly more distant than it should have been, as he saw something from the inside of the mask that was definitely not normal. It appeared as if some fleshy material was growing around the back of the eye.

Examining something foreign seemed to be a trait that was ingrained in Herbert's blood, as he found himself inexplicably reaching out towards the mask with a single finger, full intending to see if he could actually touch the eye and see it if was real. As the edge of his fingernail neared the ocular organ, he just stopped. He didn't exactly _want_ to, but he was unable to actually finish what he started and touch it. It was as if some unseen force was blocking him. "May I?" he asked, but was already reaching for the mask for an even closer investigation.

"I, uh, wouldn-" John began to protest, still affixed by the oddity he had discovered, but Herbert had easily pulled the artifact from his loose grasp.

"This is fascinating," Herbert murmured, truly captivated by what was presented to him. "Absolutely fascin- OW!" he suddenly yelled as he felt a sharp pain dart across his forefinger.

The shock caused him to drop the object entirely and horrified looks grew on both his and John's faces as they watched the Jade Veil tumble to the floor. Once again, it landed with a 'clink' sound and not much else. No shattering, no cracking, not even a chip randomly flying off from somewhere.

"Oh, shit- oh, shit. Did it cut you?" the gunslinger asked, reaching for the mask.

"Yes. Is it alright? Did it break? Wait, am _I_ going to be alright? Is it coated in something poisonous?"

"It ain't broke, and I don't think it's fulla poison or nothin', but the last time someone was cut by it..."

Herbert grabbed his bag, searching for the 'can't be too safe' box of band-aids he had only mentioned minutes before. "'Last time someone was cut by it' what, John? What happened?"

Almost on cue, the mask began to pulsate with white light, bouncing it out like tremors that would grow with each successive surge.

"This!" John yelled and both men were absorbed into the luminous bubble.

* * *

When the light passed and the two could see and hear again, they found themselves outside. Somewhere outside in the pitch dark of night, with the sky seemingly having had a hole torn into it and torrential-like rain bearing down on them.

Two pairs of feet shuffled around in haphazard circles as both men tried to ascertain their changed situation.

Herbert held his medical bag above his head. It was a weak attempt to combat the downpour, but it at least helped a little. "What happened? Where are we? How come we're not at Dan's anymore?"

"Those are all good questions, Mr. West, and I don't have an answer for a single one-uh 'em," John loudly responded, trying to be heard over the sound of the hard rain. He looked around on the ground around them, seeing if he could find the body of his friend anywhere. "I guess the dead don't travel," he finally sighed.

"What?!" Herbert yelled, truly not understanding what his companion had whispered.

"Never you mind, Mr. West." John began to put the mask back in his pocket when Herbert chastised him.

"Don't put it in there! With all the moving around you do, you'll probably bang it into a wall and break it! If it got us into some mess, we'll need it to get out! Just give it to me and I'll keep it i my bag." He motioned for the relic with an outstretched hand, his medicine bag slumping slightly over his head with only one hand to support it.

John looked at him for a moment and shrugged, handing the object over and watching as his new travel partner hastily stuffed it into his kit. In all honesty, he didn't mind much. The damn thing was heavier than it looked and was pulling his pocket stitching to shit, anyway. Besides, they were in this together now, the gunslinger supposed.

He eyed a rather large building, one that was not too far from them, and began walking towards it. The lights were on, as various windows displayed, so he assumed that meant someone was home. Still, just because someone may be home, they might not be quite welcoming to company, which is exactly why he kept one hand close to his gun as he motioned for Herbert to follow him with his other.

"Where are you going?" the doctor asked, barely audible over the pouring rain.

"That place has lights," John pointed, continuing his stride. "Maybe some kind soul will let us inside for a bit. Might not be a bad idea to have some sort of story to tell 'em, either. I'll leave that to you."

"Oh, thanks," Herbert mumbled under his breath. Thinking up a story on such short notice would mean he would have to improvise and not go overboard with it... which was something he sometimes struggled with. The last time he had to improvise something, he killed Dr. Hill by severing his head with a spade instead of just knocking him out.


	6. It's Partytime! (The Return of the Living Dead)

"Close the motha-fuckin' windows, man!" Spider yelled, the sense of anxiety he felt clearly ringing through in his voice.

His friend's reply squelched any hopes that rolling the car windows up would help him escape the stinging rain that had started falling.

"I don't have any windows; I busted 'em!" Suicide answered.

"Fuck!"

The twenty-one-year-old Spider was definitely a stand-out in his group. His Rick James inspired hairstyle was probably what caught most peoples' attention, and it had certainly got him laid more than a few times, but getting laid was the last thing on his mind at the moment.

 _What the fuck happened? Things were goin' alright. Shit, we were having_ fun _! And then... what the fuck happened?_ he thought to himself. First there was the strange-looking smoke coming from the mortuary across from the graveyard, then the rain started. It wasn't any kind of normal rain, though. It fell too hard, too fast. There wasn't even any forewarning of it in the air. The stuff stung, too. It felt like it was burning your skin with each drop that hit you... and a lot were going to hit you with how much was falling. And then, of course, there was the blinding light. It came right after the rain started. Or maybe it came _with_ the rain. Nobody knew, and they were all too panicked to pay attention anyway. Things had went from fine to shit in about five seconds flat.

Their current situation was a breeding ground for agitation, confusion and a little claustrophobia. It wasn't as if Suicide's 1960 Cadillac Convertible was not spacious, because it was... but trying to seat six frenzied people into the automobile when it was in closed-top mode was a bit of a stressor. Everyone was talking at once, and everyone wanted nothing more than to get out of the rain and into someplace dry and safe.

"Hey, my skin burns!" Trash bemoaned, quite pathetically. Of the six occupants, the redhead was the only one who was completely and utterly naked (save for a pair of stockings). Before their party had literally been stormed-out, she had performed a strip-tease atop one of the many sarcophagi that riddled the graveyard they chose to hang out in. She could have redressed in her clothing anytime after, but chose to remain naked for a good twenty minutes after. It was a choice she began to regret.

"It's that rain! It's like acid rain!" Casey added, after Scuz had mentioned that his skin burned as well.

"Fuck the rain! What about that light? And those... those... whatever the fuck they were?!" Chuck yelled in a panic. Of all the people in the car, he would have stuck out as a sore thumb the most. He didn't dress like a delinquent, he didn't have the attitude of a misfit... and he couldn't even list a handful of his friends' favorite deathrock or punk bands. If anything, people would think Chuck was a yuppie at first glance with his fancy suits and styled-hair and by any account they would be right, but there was a rebel hiding under that urban professional image and his friends could sense that about him. It was one of the main reasons not a single one of them kicked his ass up and down the town when he first approached the group.

"That was lightning, jackass!" Suicide yelled, not even bothering to look over. He was a very angry individual, one who felt like the whole world, friends included, simply didn't understand him. He showed his anger in various ways, but the main two were his car and his looks. His car was already in bad shape when he had bought it, but that didn't stop him from breaking out the side windows in drunken fits, spray-painting words and phrases like "DIE,' 'Get away,' 'Why bother?' and 'Who cares?' all over the body and not caring about the vehicle's deteriorating condition. His attire spoke volumes about him as well. Suicide wore lots of leather, adorned with chains and spiked studs almost everywhere. He even wore a spiked collar around his neck. His appearance gave a similar warning of 'stay away- I already don't like you and I'll probably kick your ass'. His hair was shaved short and into a style that would garner a lot of attention, but absolutely no job opportunities, and he had a lip piercing that connected to one of his numerous ear piercings via an actual length of chain.

"That sure as shit _wasn't_ lightning! You ever seen lightning that just explodes like that without sending off any sparks or starting a fire?"

"It probably hit a generator and the rain put out any sparks or fire before we could see 'em."

"It hit a generator and no place lost power?! What about those two things?"

Suicide growled in anger. "It was probably some jerks from the mortuary gettin' ready to kick us out of the cemetery, moron!"

"I don't think so, man. They came just after the rain started and they weren't there before that blinding light. They're aliens or something. Get us the hell out of here!"

"Yeah, come on, start the car!" Spider demanded, cutting-in between the two bickering men. Like the others, he had been blinded by the flash of light that appeared from out of nowhere and he agreed, in part, with both men. It wasn't a strike of lightning. No way in hell it could've been that, but he didn't think it was some weird alien light, either. Spider simply didn't subscribe to that bullshit. No, the men, he reasoned with his other friend, were likely employees of the nearby funeral home and were probably going to try to kick them off the property and threaten to call the cops. Regardless of whatever any of it truly was, Spider only knew that they needed to get the hell out of dodge, and fast!

In lieu of a reply, Suicide began to pour silent profanities out of his mouth, doubtlessly aimed towards his lemon of a vehicle. Suddenly, Trash once again made her voice heard.

"It's all over me. A towel- will someone give me a towel!"

"We ain't got no towel!" Spider yelled angrily, looking back at Trash momentarily. He was growing agitated with the tension and, to some extent, his friends. "Come on, man, start the car!" He had turned his attention back to their would-be driver.

"I'm tryin'!" Suicide protested, bouncing back and forth in his seat as he turned the key and the car's engine merely sputtered.

A small fight broke out in the backseat between Trash and Casey when Trash demanded that the other girl give her a piece of her clothing so she could wipe some of the burning rain off of her skin.

"Come on- START!" Spider yelled, now full of anger instead of anxiety.

"Suicide, get the car goin'" Scuz added after watching Trash successfully pull Casey's purple waist-sash from her and begin to dry herself.

The continuous demands did not help the punk's attitude at all. "I'm fuckin' tryin'!" he yelled, pounding an open fist against the steering wheel.

"Crap," Trash continued to whine, "I wonder what's in that rain."

It wasn't a bad question, and certainly one that warranted answering considering the sensation it left on those it touched, but there wasn't a single occupant of the Cadillac that had an explanation.

After several more failed attempts, which ended with Suicide finally giving up on his car altogether, and the hard-top springing a leak, the gang decided to take shelter where two of their other friends were, Tina and her boyfriend, Freddy. Truth be told, Freddy was the entire reason why they all found themselves where they were. All they wanted to do was party, and Freddy always knew where the good parties were, but he had started a new job and still had two hours left on his shift by the time they arrived at Uneeda Medical Supply. Tina didn't want the group hanging around the building in fear that it may freak out Freddy's boss and get him fired and it was Scuz who suggested that they could all 'fool around' in the cemetery right next to the supply house until their friend's shift ended.

Upon arrive at the warehouse, the collection of punks gazed around awkwardly, trying to determine where their friends were in a seemingly unoccupied building.

"Hey Tina!" Suicide yelled, hoping for some sort of response. He got one, and it was not at all what he was anticipating.

"Yes! Oh God! Help me!"

The reply sounded muffled and somewhat distant, but it was definitely Tina's voice and Suicide had honed in on where it came from within seconds. He rushed towards the back of the building as the others followed. When he made it to the basement, there was a peculiar scene playing out in front of him. A taut chain was wrapped around the handles of a metal cabinet, slowly distorting the doors as it pulled and ripped them from their hinges. The sobs and screams of a terrified Tina could be heard coming from within.

"What the fuck?!" Suicide questioned with true confusion riddling his face.

As the chain finally yanked the doors from their frame and they crashed to the concrete floor, the 6'5" intimidating punker tore at a sheet hanging from the ceiling, revealing the operator of the pulley in the process.

If there was one thing in his life Suicide would have immediately taken back, it would have been that last action... because it truly was his last action.

The figure behind the grimy curtain was not human. It may have been at one point, but couldn't have been anymore. Its flesh appeared slimy, melted and black, literally dripping off of its bones with every movement the creature made. It had no eyelids, but bulging eyeballs that looked completely dead, yet seemingly followed movement very well. The towering abomination didn't have any lips either, just a set of perfect white teeth, and it still somehow managed to spit out the word, 'Brains!' before grabbing ahold of a stunned Suicide and tearing into his skull with its pearly-white chompers.

Everyone heard the disturbing 'crunch' sound of Suicide's skull giving way to the powerful set of teeth that had bore down on it, and it was immediately followed by a harrowing scream of agony from their friend. None of them had ever heard anything like it before, and they would never be able to forget it either. A gush of blood began pouring from the wound as Suicide's dead body fell to the floor, spasming occasionally. No one moved- they couldn't. The mixture of horror and shock had cemented them into their places. As a screaming Tina ran passed the group and up the stairs, it jolted Spider into action. Terrified, he lifted up a half-empty can of paint and threw it at the beast that was chewing on his friend's brains. It hit the thing in the back, bouncing off its exposed length of spine and causing it to keel over to the side from the force of the impact. It quickly stood and looked at the collection of frozen bodies. 'More brains!' it bellowed and that was more than enough to send everyone into a frenzy and have them race up the stairs.

When they reached the landing, they all kept going, knowing full-well that whatever had killed Suicide was following them. It was only Spider who had the alertness to actually slam the basement door shut and lean the full-force of his body against it, hindering anything from easily opening it.

"Where the fuck you goin'?" he yelled back at his scampering friends, adrenaline rushing through his veins. "Help me bar the door! Stupid fuckas!"

* * *

The noise of hammers pounding nails into boards that haphazardly zigzagged across the doorway, barring any usage of it, were nearly enough to drown out the sounds coming from the other side of it. The sounds of heavy, phlegm-filled, incessant breathing, accompanied by the scraping, scratching noise of bare bones attempting to dig into (or through) wood. That thing was on the other side of the door, trying desperately to get through, to get more 'brains', and the six individuals on the opposite end had no intentions of letting that happen... even if some were not exactly in their right mind about it.

"What are we doing? What are we doing?!" Chuck asked for the umpteenth time in the last ten minutes, still helping Spider hammer the last of the nails in. "Suicide's down there!"

"Chuck! He's gone!" Scuz yelled, holding his head as if it were about to pop and pacing back and forth. "That thing ate his head! Jesus!"

Casey suddenly shrieked, her voice audibly cracking, "What was that anyway?"

No one answered. No one knew _how_ to answer.

"I said-"

"Shh!" Spider interrupted, cocking his head and holding his ear close to the door. "I don't hear anything down there anymore. Do you?"

"Oh God! Oh Jesus! What if it's found another way out? What if it's coming after us right now?!"

"What the fuck are we gonna do?!" Spider had asked the question and looked at everyone, hoping for some ideas.

"We gotta call somebody!"

"Who?"

"The cops!" Tina answered immediately, but Scuz protested the idea completely, fearing the authorities would only blame everything on them and kick their asses.

"Just- let's just get out of here, okay?!" Chuck half-asked, half-demanded.

Casey once again pierced everyone's ears with her high-pitched outcry, "No! We gotta call somebody!"

Suddenly, the look on Spider's face changed, as if he had just had some sort of epiphany. "Wait a minute, where's Freddy?"

Holding herself like she had been ever since she made it upstairs again, Tina perked up, "He's gone. He wasn't here when I showed up."

Her words sparked something in Casey and it was her turn to light up. "Oh my god, you guys! Chuck-" She frantically motioned between herself and her friend. "We saw Freddy! We did! He was going into that mortuary by the cemetery!"

"Yeah?" Scuz asked, looking at the misfit of misfits for reassurance.

Chuck began to stammer. "Yeah, well... it kinda looked like Freddy I guess, but... I mean..."

"Fuck it," Spider interrupted. "Let's go to the mortuary. If Freddy's not there, maybe we can at least get some help from those creepy fuckers who were gonna crash our party."

"The alie-" Chuck began, but was quickly cut-off.

"They _weren't_ fuckin' aliens!"

* * *

The six traumatized friends fled on foot in the rain, a shared feeling of ambivalence hung over the group like a cloud. They were relieved to be getting as far away as they could from that thing in the warehouse basement and at the possibility of finding their friend, but they were still beyond scared and depressed with the loss of Suicide.

They decided to take the shortcut to the funeral home through the cemetery, each following the other as if it was already a laid-out plan. The rain hadn't stopped or even slowed slightly in the time they had first escaped it, and the group found themselves splashing and sploshing across the various large puddles that had grown from the collected rainwater. The fact that the falling water had lost its burning property was something that was lost on them, as they had far bigger things to worry about now.

They all stopped at the entrance of a random ossuary, trying to make sure the gang remained intact and allowing themselves a moment to catch their breath after sloppily crossing another large puddle.

Spider looked at yet another body of water in their path, this one bigger than any they had come across previously in their sprint. "Holy shit! We're gonna have to swim to get over there!"

Suddenly, there was a loud, gurgling moan that took everyone by surprise.

"What the fuck was that?!" Spider's eyes rapidly zoomed back and forth across the patch of graveyard in front of them, but he couldn't see anything.

Tina's face contorted into a gruesome twist of horror and she pointed to a random grave with one hand, holding tight onto Spider's shirt with the other. "Look! There!"

The ground under the grave of a one William 'Willy' Putname, who died peacefully in 1971 according to his tombstone, began to rise and shift. It didn't take more than a second for a rotting, gray-fleshed frame to rise from the dirt and open its eyes, looking at the collection of punks the same way the tarman-like creature from the warehouse had.

Upon this sight, everyone scattered in different directions. Less than ten seconds after fleeing, Spider came across Scuz and they both spotted Tina laying flat in a puddle, flailing wildly with fear. They lifted her up with ease and kept running in the direction they hoped the mortuary was located, watching as more dead rose from their graves all around them. They heard a voice behind them, someone saying something like 'Hey, wait guys, wait for me!', but none of them could even force themselves to stop their forward momentum and turn around. It wouldn't have mattered either way, as the words were replaced by screams a moment later and the trio knew they had lost another friend.

* * *

It felt like they were running forever and the only slight bit of relief they got was when the mortuary came into view and the lights were still on. As soon as the three made it to the front of the building, they all began pounding wildly and frantically at the door. They needed someone to answer, and they needed them to do it fast!

"Open the door! Open the door, please!" both Scuz and Spider shouted as Tina merely screamed and limply floundered her palms against the door.

The porch lights suddenly came on, but no one could see who was inside to have flipped the switch.

"Open the door! Hurry up!" Spider yelled, believing that the sense of urgency in his voice would alert whoever was inside of their dire situation.

The door flew open moments later and there were two men pointing guns at them. One wore some sort of cowboy getup and the other, a very scared looking white-haired man, greeted them with a demanding warning, 'Freeze or you're dead!'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the first reanimated zombie from a pure skeletal one to a fleshy one because I always found the notion of a skeleton (with eyelids, nonetheless) coming back as utterly ridiculous when none of the skeletons in the warehouse were reanimated and Willy likely had no brain matter left in his skull since he passed away almost a century before the events of the film.


	7. Unexpected guests

John and Herbert followed along the building until they could see shadows shifting on the ground and figures moving in the windows. They heard voices as well, but almost all of what was said was too muffled to be understood. They continued down the side of the structure, unsure of exactly where they were going and Herbert even asking if they should go back and knock on the window where they knew people were. John ignored the question and silently pressed on, eventually rounding a corner that seemed to lead to some sort of entrance.

"There's something wrong here. This rain burns, John," Herbert said, trying to pull his hands into his sleeves while still holding the medicine bag above his head for cover.

"Does sting a little," John responded, finally appearing to pay attention to his partner once again, "but I do think we may have found ourselves a door here."

The two continued along the grass lawn, taking note of the stone path that went from the door to what Herbert described as a 'paved parking lot'. John didn't exactly know what that was, but he didn't rightly care at the moment, either.

Before either man could knock on the door, the egress suddenly burst open and a pale-looking older gentleman ran outside and immediately began to vomit.

"Whoa, whoa. You alright, mister?" John asked as Herbert noticeably jumped back, trying quite avidly to avoid the splosh of puke as it hit the wet ground. John caught the man under his arm as he began to sway and two other men came running outside. There was an awkward moment of nothing as the men all stared at each other before one of them, a white-haired man, finally grabbed the sickly person under his other arm and escorted him inside. Herbert was uncertain and distrusting of the tension that had built up from out of nowhere in the seconds they had all met, but he followed John inside nonetheless.

"I gotta call my wife! I gotta go to the hospital!" the sick man bellowed as he was dragged back inside, his legs giving out like wet noodles. He almost instantly began gagging and retching again as John and the other man led him to a couch nearby. It was then that Herbert noticed a fourth man, much younger than the other three, first leaning into and then sitting down on the couch as well. He was wearing a red and silver blank stadium jacket and he, too, appeared very sweaty, pale and just as sick as the man next to him.

"Now who in the hell are you two and why were you skulking around my mortuary?" the white-haired man asked.

He was a bit older, Herbert guessed, probably somewhere around his mid-forties to early fifties and he worn a matching set of burgundy clothes that almost looked like a pair of pajamas. He was holding a pearl-handled pistol and aiming it towards the doctor and his returning friend.

Noticing he was being drawn upon, John performed a quick-draw of his own and the two were locked into a standoff.

Herbert immediately began to chastise the gunslinger, not even bothering to watch the volume of his tone. "What are you doing? Are you insane?! You don't just pull out a gun when someone asks you who you are! We don't even know _where_ we are!"

"But he-"

"Paramedics. Paramedics!" the sick man yelled out suddenly.

The white-haired man sighed and, with a look of exasperation, began to make his way towards and around John and Herbert, never breaking eye contact or his aim.

"Are these men sick?" Herbert asked. He did not receive an answer. "Look, I'm a doctor." He raised his medical bag up as evidence. "I can help."

Another sigh escaped the man and he motioned with his gun that it was alright for the doctor to proceed. As he watched John holster his weapon, he did the same and went to a desk where a telephone was.

"What seems to be the problem, hmm?" Herbert questioned as he approached the pale men. He didn't truly care what the problem was, he just wanted to create some sort of distraction so John wouldn't start a gunfight.

"They're sick," the third man explained. "They ingested some sorta chemical."

"Chemical? What chemical?" Herbert's interest was suddenly piqued.

"I don't know. Some sorta gas. It got all over them."

"What's your name?"

"Burt."

"Well, Burt, do you know where they ingested this mysterious, gassy chemical?"

"Does it matter?" Burt sounded like he was starting to get agitated with the line of questioning. "Just do your Goddamn doctor thing and help them."

Herbert shook his head and unzipped his bag, immediately rooting around for instruments.

* * *

"Hello, yes, uh, can we get some paramedics over here right away, please? That's the, uh, Resurrection Funeral Home, 21702 East Central. Tell 'em to come around back to the embalming room..." the white-haired man said into the phone.

John watched him as he talked , trying to place where he had seen a gun like his before.

After the man hung-up, he took in a deep breath and looked towards the couch. "Burt, they're on their way. Now..." He shifted his attention to John. "Would you mind telling me who you people are... and where you came from."

Herbert took the lead from the other side of the room, keeping his eyes on his patients and his medical equipment. "The name's Herbert. Herbert West. I'm a doctor and John there is one of my special patients. We were on our way to a new facility when I hit a pothole in the road and lost control of our car, crashing into a light pole. I conked my head pretty hard," he pointed to the band-aid on his forehead, "and the seat-belt gave my ribs a good squeeze, but John seems to be alright. The car is totaled, though. We came here because I need to use a phone and the lights were on. Didn't know we'd be walking into... this."

John was on the verge of protesting when he remembered that it was at _his_ plan for Herbert to come up with a story... and he apparently had.

"Why's he dressed up like that?" Burt asked, sitting in-between the sick men as Herbert examined them.

"It's a long story, but basically he thinks he's a cowboy and this is still the Wild West. We have a more vexing problem than my patient, though." He peered up at Burt solemnly, putting his stethoscope back into his bag before zipping it up. "Can I speak with you and..." He peered over his shoulder at the white-haired man.

"Ernie," the man answered, understanding Herbert was talking about him.

"Can I speak with you two in another room, please?"

* * *

"What's the matter?" Ernie asked as he shut the door to the embalming room. "And it is safe to leave your patient, um... John, in there with them?"

Herbert scrunched up his face in disregard and shook his head, "He's harmless."

"Harmless?" Burt almost sprung forward as he released the question. "I saw a gun on his damn hip! That sure as hell didn't look harmless!"

"Oh, that..." Herbert trailed off and released a nervous laugh. He would be damned if this lying business wasn't a constant struggle. "It's all- it's all part of his therapy," he finally managed to say, running through his brain at a thousand miles a minute to find an adequate excuse to yet another falsehood. "It's an old antique-"

 _No, try again,_ he thought, scolding himself for not being more apt at this sort of thing.

"I mean, a prop. I don't even think it has the, uh... stuff that makes it...shoot?"

_Oh god, Herbert... did you just say 'shoot' like it was a question?_

"A firing pin? Bullets? What?" Ernie questioned, a squint of doubt was folding his facial features.

"Yes, those," the doctor nodded before trying to move the conversation forward. "Anyway, it's not concerning. What is concerning, though, are your two friends in there-"

"Frank and Freddy?" Burt asked.

"Yes, the sick ones. Well, it's actually a little worse than that, I'm afraid. They're... well, they're dead."

"They're _what_?!" both Burt and Ernie shouted at the same time. The doctor had put the news out so bluntly that they had no idea how to react.

"Dead. Quite dead, actually," Herbert reassured with an eerie calmness. "They look pale as death because they are. That's pallor mortis setting in, not severe sickness. Algor mortis is setting in as well; their body temperature is almost the same as regular room temperature. I can't imagine it'll be long before rigor mortis sets in and then, finally, vigor mortis will be the end of it. They don't even have a heartbeat, so I'm surprised the brain is still functioning at all."

"You're- You're a crackpot," Ernie insisted after a few moments of shocked silence.

"I assure you I'm not!" Herbert rebutted with a look of hurt astonishment. "If you want to help your friends, you find that chemical," he told Burt. Herbert knew it was far too late for the soon-to-be corpses sitting in the embalming room, but still... just the thought of being able to play around with a substance that could sustain brain function while the rest of the body was dying or dead was enough to almost make him giddy. Perhaps it was the key element he was looking for for his reagent; the one that would restore the reanimated to their normal state of mind post-rebirth. He shot his eyes back to Ernie. "Now do you- ah!" He grabbed at the back of his head in pain, as if something had just burst inside his skull. "Do you-" he tried to continue again but another surge of pain roared through his brain and his head jolted, almost like a small tremor.

"Hey, are you alright?!" Ernie asked, steadying the now-rickety doctor.

"Jesus, Ernie, what's wrong with him?"

"I- just," Herbert tried to communicate, but it felt like everything was crashing around him. "Bathroom. Where's a bathroom?" he was finally able to ask.

The two escorted him to a small restroom and stood outside of the door while he did what he had to to feel better.

Once alone, Herbert propped his medical bag on the sink and pulled out a bottle of glowing green liquid. It wasn't nearly as bright and brilliant as the concoction Dan had injected into Meg. It was far weaker, but Herbert needed it to be to do what he wanted it to. He grabbed an empty needle and a rubber tourniquet and struggled to focus.

* * *

After he was finished, it only took a few seconds for the doctor to feel normal and in control again. He exited the small bathroom to find Burt and Ernie staring at him.

"Everything alright in there? We heard you making some strange sounds."

"Yes," Herbert nodded his head, "Just a little headache from..." Quick thinking time again. "...from dehydration. And the accident. Water stopped it," he smiled, "and the aspirin I took should hold it off."

"Maybe you should be seen by the paramedics, too, when they get here," Ernie suggested.

Herbert merely played the idea off with a lackluster 'Mmm,' before asking, "Do you have a phone I can use? I need to call the facility and explain what happened."

"Oh, yes, this way," Ernie motioned and began to lead the way.

"I'll need John, too. He shouldn't be away from me for too long."

Burt took the cue and went to fetch the 'special patient'.

* * *

"Nice sidearm you've got there," the gunslinger commended from behind Herbert, spooking him slightly. John motioned his eyes to the gun holstered by Ernie's side. "Never seen one like it before. What kind is it?"

"It's a, uh, Walther P38."

"A friend of mine used to have something like that. It was called a Mauser... something or 'nother. I can't rightly recall."

"A Mauser C96, probably," Ernie said with a small smile on his lips, his eyes seemingly locked onto an empty space. "They're an antique now, you know?" He suddenly snapped his focus back onto the newcomers. "But this one is still in production and mine is real... and loaded, so no funny stuff, alright?"

"Oh, mine is re-"

"Thank you. We'll be just a few minutes," Herbert quickly intervened, cutting John off before he could gloat that his gun was real and loaded as well. He pulled him into the office and closed the door.

"So what's the plan Mr. West?"

Herbert winced at the utterance of 'Mr. West' again. "I don't... I don't know exactly. I just need to find out where we are-"

"And _when_ we are, but I-" John interrupted.

"Oh, please," the doctor scoffed, inadvertent playing a 'tit for tat' disruption game with the gunslinger. "Look, I may not know what happened, but I sure as hell know that we didn't time travel or any of that kind of nonsense."

"I didn't think it could happen neither, Mr. West, then I ended up in a morgue, saving your sorry behind and looking at things that were years ahead of the time I came from."

Again Herbert winced. "Can you please call me 'Herbert' instead? You... you saved my life and with what we both witnessed at the University, I believe wasting time in our conversations with civil pleasantries is far passed, John."

John released a small laugh, accompanied by a smile of equal size. "I'd rather not, Mr. West. I'd rather not." He caught Herbert's face twitch in a grimace for a third time and his smile grew. "I knew a Herbert back home. Herbert Moon was the man's name, and he wasn't exactly accepting of others. Be it because of their race, religion or pretty much any other matter that didn't meet his taste, the man was filled with hate. I'm not all that ashamed to say the world became a little better off when he died."

Herbert kept silent and listened to the gunslinger share his tale. It was the first time the man seemed complacent with his tone and vibe, and that suited the good doctor just fine. They already had enough to worry about and try to figure out without absorbing negative emotions from one another.

"So, while I can only hope his personality wasn't related to his forename, you can probably see why I prefer to call you 'Mr. West,' Mr. West."

With a sigh instead of his usual facial expression, Herbert nodded his head once in understanding. "Even though I think it's silly, because we are obviously two different Herberts... at least I would hope-" He paused and shifted his eyes to the side, towards John, looking for reassurance of the fact.

Marston appeased him with a nod of his own.

"I can understand your reasoning," he continued. "Can you at least drop the 'Mr.' and just call me 'West,' though?"

"I'd say that's a far compromise. Ya know, I also knew a Mr. West back home as well. Mr. West Dickens."

Herbert squinted, slightly confused at the name. "His first name was 'West'?"

"No," John laughed and shook his head, "it was Nigel. I just always liked to call him 'Mr. West Dickens'. He was a bit like you- the man liked to make potions and concoctions that were supposed to perform miracles... 'cept he was a snake oil salesman at its finest. Not a damn thing he sold worked the way he promised it would."

Herbert looked at his new companion with a bit of awe. "The more you talk about it, the more I am inclined to actually believe all of the stories you share with me. They are very well crafted, I'll give you that."

The gunslinger simply smiled and shook his head, not wanting to argue with the man about the genuineness of his past.

Herbert began looking around the small office while reaching for the phone. "I need to call the university, find out how bad the fallout was from the incident in the basement. And then..."

"And then?" John prodded after the doctor trailed off.

"I don't know!" Herbert answered loudly, audibly irritated. "I've never been in a situation like this! Stop trying to rush me!"

John simply chuckled and shook his head.

"You're awfully calm for a man who wants to get home to his family."

"Can't get home to 'em right now," John shrugged. "They're likely all dead in 1984 anyhow, so til we find a way to get back to 1911, I best just worry about the here and now."

" _We_?" Herbert questioned with a cynical tone, not even catching what John was sure he would in his statement. "Oh no. As soon as I get this mess figured out, I'm getting as far away from you as possible. That much I know for sure. Time only moves forward, John, not backward."

The last part of his statement almost had John burst out in a fit of laughter considering time had indeed moved backwards for the both of them in this new environment, even if only by a little.

Herbert proceeded to pick up the phone and dial a number. The line stayed silent for a moment and, instead of a ringing sound, his ears were greeted with three beeps of varying pitches. He winced at the piercing sounds as an automated female voice immediately followed. 'We're sorry; your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please check the number and dial again, or call your operator to help you.'

He groaned, hung up and tried again. He was met with the same results.

"Something wrong?" the gunslinger asked, taking special note of the doctor's confused face. Herbert waved him off and dialed zero for the operator.

John looked around to room as his companion finally began talking with someone. He spotted a red bag with some metal instruments sticking out of it. He fiddled with them for a moment before raising his gaze and taking note of two Volcanic Pistols encased in a glass-fronted frame and hanging from the wall above. The times might have moved on, but hints of the past were everywhere it seemed. Oddly enough, the sight made him smile and long for home. Herbert's voice pulled him from his moment of reminisce.

"No, _you're_ wrong. There most certainly _is_ a Miskotonic University. Maybe I'm just not remembering the number right. Just..." he sighed and tried to collect himself. "Just connect me to the police department in Arkham." There was a slight pause and he looked frustrated all over again. "Arkham! A-R-K-H-A-M! It's in Massachusetts for crying out loud. How do you even- how do you even keep your job?!" Another pause and more frustration from the doctor. "Doesn't exist?! What are you even talking about?! I moved there! I live there! It certainly does exist! You have to be the dumbest, most inept per- Hello? Hello?"

John watched as Herbert slammed the phone down. "Well, that sounded like it went over well," he joked.

Herbert glared at him angrily and did not say a word for a moment. Eventually, with contempt still written all over his face, he spoke. "She said it doesn't exist. The idiot on the other end of the line said Arkham, Massachusetts doesn't exist! How ridiculous is that!?"

"'Bout as ridiculous as some fancy-pants doctor who was wrapped pretty snug in a colon tellin' me that West Elizabeth doesn't exist, that New Austin doesn't ex-"

"Okay! I get it!" Herbert cut-in. "But you have to remember, you were there with me at Miskotonic University, in Arkham, John. I was never in any of the places you talked about."

"Well, I'm afraid I got another surprise for ya, Doc. It ain't 1985 no more. It's 1984. Fourth of July weekend, I guess. I was tryin' to tell ya that earlier, but you were pretty consecrated on that phone."

Herbert just stared at him, stunned and in disbelief, so much so that he didn't even have the ability to correct John's entire misuse of a word. "And- and h-how do you know that?" he finally stammered out.

"I was talking with those two sick fellas when you went out the room to talk with the other two."

"Well, they're sick, John! They don't know what their talking about. Technically, they're dead, but that's besides the point. I know for a fact that they're wrong, anyway. The Fourth of July was on a Wednesday last year, so I would hardly count..." he trailed off as his eyes drifted around the room, like he was looking for something.

"What do ya mean those two are technically dead?"

"No blood pressure, no pulse, various types of mortis setting in. They're walking, talking corpses. It is actually quite fascinating...and infuriating since I thought I was the first and only one to unlock such a secret."

His mind had calmed slightly with the distraction John had just given him, but when he finally eyed what he was searching for, a small flip calendar on the desk with various notes written next to each date, his mental state spun like a top. The three dates in the middle of the page that had '1984 - July' printed in the top right corner read 'Friday, July 3rd,' 'Saturday, July 4th,' and 'Sunday, July 5th'.

Herbert quietly stared at the printed dates on the calendar while a storm erupted in his mind, one that almost rivaled the actual tempest outside.

"How? How can this be poss- no... no. Something must- something must be wrong here..." he finally managed to deny, breaking off at odd points as if to reassure himself he was correct.

John sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Doc, I don't think you're gettin' what-"

A knock on the other side of the door stopped him before he could finish.

"Are- are you two done in there? The paramedics just arrived and I'd really like them to take a look at you, Doctor West."

It was Ernie and, though his concern was admirable, Herbert couldn't have cared less about being seen. He knew what was wrong and he fixed it... until the next time, at least. "Yes, um, where?" His voice sounded distant, as he was truly struggling to bring himself back from the void the calendar dates had put him in.

"In the embalming room where Freddy and Frank are."

"Alright, we'll be there."

* * *

The paramedics, as it turned out, were perplexed by the current state of the two ailing men they were called to see. Much to the disdain of both Burt and Ernie, they had partially confirmed what Herbert had already said. They had no pulse, their blood pressure was zero over zero, their body temperatures were on par with room temperature, the duo even lacked any reflexes or pupillary responses to any form of stimuli.

"What does that mean? What does any of that mean?" Freddy asked after one of the EMTs explained all of their lacking normal system functions.

"Well, it's a puzzle, because technically you're not alive."

"Ha!" Herbert spat out, garnering the attention of every person in the room. Slightly embarrassed, he covered his mouth with one hand and raised the other awkwardly. "Sorry, it's just... please continue."

"You're also conscious though, so we don't know what it means," the medical technician resumed, giving one last glance at the doctor.

"Are you sayin' we're dead?" Freddy suddenly asked, as if the light bulb had finally clicked on in his head.

"Now don't jump to conclus-" the other paramedic tried to intervene.

"Are you sayin' were dead!?" the sick punk once again questioned, raising his voice to a shout.

The first paramedic raised his hand to an angered Freddy, trying to signal that the whole situation needed to calm down. "Obviously I didn't mean you were really dead."

"Oh, yes you did!" Herbert half-shouted. "Because that's exactly what they are! Dead!" He was not handling the possibility that he had actually time-traveled well at all, and it was clearly showing in his altered demeanor.

Ernie appeared very irritated with the doctor and his words. "What is wrong with you? This is a very serious situation and you're acting like some kind of... child!"

"Dead people don't move around and talk!" the paramedic stated, trying to calm the ill men, but directing the anger of his tone towards Herbert.

"Ohhhh," West laughed manically, "you don't have any idea how wrong you are."

"That's it!" Ernie smashed a balled-fist onto a metal table and furiously stared a hole into the prodding doctor. "Take your patient and get the hell out of my funeral home! I don't care if you drown in the rain out there; just get out!"

"Whoa now, hold on," John finally stepped in, placing a hand on Herbert's chest and waving the other towards Ernie. "Remember now, the ol' doc here hit his head an'-"

A loud collection of knocks and shouts interrupted the gunslinger before he could finish, prompting him to instinctively reach for the butt of his gun.

Herbert's head whipped up, eyes glancing at the direction of the door.

"What the hell's that, Ernie?" Burt asked, watching his friend literally jolt to a standing position.

"Front door."

"Well, what the fuck are they doing?"

"I'll find out."

"Hey, I'll come along, if ya don't mind," John insisted, following directly behind the man who had demanded he leave the building moments ago.

Ernie didn't reply, but instead just increased his pace as the knocks became more rapid and hectic. Both men had already unholstered their weapons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I slightly altered the timeline to enhance the different world travel subplot going here.


	8. Damned if you do, damned if you don't

"Don't shoot, man!" Spider exclaimed, not at all looking forward to being shot in the face after running his ass off to escape a horde of corpses that had just exhumed themselves.

Not even considering lowering his weapon, Ernie questioned, "Are you crazy?! Are you on PCP?!"

"Nobody's on any drugs, man, just let us in!"

The mortician hesitated for a moment, but only a moment. "Alright, come in, come in. No funny moves!"

As the punks entered the building, Ernie began to sidestep them and turn his body in a way that he was always face-to-face with the newcomers. After the entryway light was turned on, John simply stepped back and reholstered his gun, assuming that the kids were no threat, just scared out of their minds about something.

As Scuz and Tina backed up further into the room, Spider quickly shut the door and locked it, releasing a warning to the gun-toting embalmer.

"Man, look, you gotta lock all your doors and your windows and call the cops! They're out there!"

"Who's out there?" Ernie questioned, trying to appear tough and fearsome as he rose to the tips of his toes and met Spider within an inch of his face.

"Don't you hear that?" Tina questioned, still on the verge of a full-on breakdown. The girl did not know how to handle stress well, but hardly anyone would in their current situation.

Already frustrated with how quickly his night had turned to shit, all of his unexpected guests and the fact that he should have been at home well over an hour ago with his feet propped up on his ottoman and a glass of brandy in his hand, Ernie angrily yelled 'What!?' in response to the girl.

"Shut up and listen, man!" Scuz urged, pointing to the door.

The room fell silent, moans and screams could be heard coming from the distance. Somehow, they had pierced the fierce sounds of the storm.

The racket took Ernie by surprise and his facial expression showed it. "What is that?"

"It's dead people screamin'!" Spider shouted, his chest heaving as he began to realize just how out of breath and scared he really was.

"What do you mean 'dead people screm-'"

"Dead people?" John husky voice pitched in, alarming the two youths who did not realize he was behind them. "Like, out of the ground?"

Tina quickly butted-in, realizing her friend's statement would be met with cynicism. "Yes, out of the ground, and they're after us. Our friends took off the other way and they're out there now!"

The gunslinger didn't like the sound of this. It sounded like something he had run into far too much lately and he didn't understand how it could keep happening. Before long, Ernie went to the embalming room to grab Burt for his opinion on the news. Herbert, looking quite reluctant, followed along.

"What do you mean? What kind of problem?" Burt questioned as he walked down the twisting halls of the building.

"Well, take a look at it." Ernie really had no idea how to explain the situation to Burt any better than letting him see it with his own eyes and hear the tale from the suspects themselves.

As they turned the corner, Herbert spotted John leaning against a wall and made a beeline towards the man.

"Alright, what the hell's goin' on out here?" Burt asked, his deep-rooted Oklahoma accent making the words come out with a soft drawl, even in his state of frustration.

"Mister," Spider began in explanation, slightly surprising even himself with the civil pleasantry, "that graveyard out there is full of people comin' outta the ground."

"What do you mean 'out of the ground'?"

Spider was about to reaffirm his words when Tina had beat him to it, nodding frantically as she did so.

"Yes, out of the ground," she repeated for the second time in mere minutes. It was quite clear that something had happened to the girl. Something that had no only caked her clothing in mud, left her eyes puffy with tears and had her checking the door behind her while she spoke, but caused her great anxiety when even attempting to go into detail about the matter. "They're horrible and they scream and you've got to do something!"

"Scream?" Burt cut in as the girl was finishing her sentence, the word triggering an ominous feeling in his gut.

"Yes." Tina once again nodded fervently, her whole body almost shaking with the motion. "Mister, they're out there and there's one of them in that warehouse on the other side of the graveyard."

John took note of Spider peeking behind his shoulder towards the door as well and understood that all of the new arrivals were terrified that their shelter was in danger of being overwhelmed by the 'dead people' who were just on the other side of it. A small part of him, one that he was actively trying to keep buried at the moment, knew that they were probably right, too.

"Which- which warehouse?" Burt interjected again as Tina was still talking. The information sent him into a panic, but he tried to speak calmly as he asked. He knew it was a long shot that it wouldn't be _his_ warehouse she was talking about, as the hydraulic and industrial hose distribution center, House of Hose, had been closed and locked up tighter than a clam with lockjaw and the only other building besides his was just a hollow shell after the inside caught fire a few years back.

"The medical supply house."

Tina had said what he feared she would and Burt burst into a small rage at the confirmation, balling up his hand into a fist and swinging it down as he turned his back to them. "Oh shit! Shit! Goddamn!"

Ernie immediately tried to calm his friend down, but also couldn't help but state the obvious. "Burt, I-I I think... I think things are... gettin' out of hand."

"Mister," Tina spoke up again, almost sounding afraid to after Burt's explosion, "there's a hundred of those things out there."

Shocked, Burt and Ernie turned to face the newcomers. John and Herbert were stunned by the news as well, their faces both knotting into forms of astonishment.

"A hundred?!" all four men asked in an eerie, almost comical, unison.

* * *

It was soon decided that the best plan of action was to get in a car- any damn car -and drive as far away as possible until they could find some real help.

As everyone followed Ernie back to the embalming room so he could grab his keys, relief instantly washed over Tina when she spotted her boyfriend on the couch. She ran to him, immediately covering his face with kisses upon her arrival, but the already-thin smile she was wearing after noticing him quickly dissolved when she got a good look at his pale, sickly face. Spider and Scuz, gathered behind the two, couldn't help but exchange glances of concern as they looked at their off-color comrade.

"Oh my God, Freddy, what did they do to you?" Tina asked, a look of despair already setting her features back. Her words floated over the heads of everyone except her friends, as they all had their own concerns.

"Ernie, where are the paramedics?" Burt raised a good concern, as the two EMTs had left to get stretchers shortly before he left the room at Ernie's urging. They should have been back and loading Frank and Freddy onto them by now.

"I'll go get them. Get my own car started," the mortician replied, and then cursed under his own breath. "Shit, my clutch is shot all to hell."

"We'll use the paramedic ambulance then! Just go!" Burt ushered the man.

As Ernie left, John insisted that he tag along again and the man, far too tired and scatterbrained to care, did not argue with him.

As soon as they stepped outside of the door, John could tell something was wrong. Ernie was fumbling with his keys, trying to find the one to his car, but when he made it to the end of the walkway, he noticed what John already had. The ambulance was still stationed at the end of the parking area, but both the driver's side and rear cabin doors were open with no one in sight. As the men cautiously approached the vehicle, once again both had their weapons drawn, it was a small solace to find that there wasn't anything menacing in the front of the vehicle when they peered in. No blood, no signs of any struggle, just empty seats. Everything looked fine.

That was, at least, until Ernie closed the door and the saw the body of one of the paramedics laying on the grass with someone sitting next to it, burrowing their mouth into the open cavity that used to be the top of his head. The creature wailed at the two men, spilling half-chewed brains from its mouth, and Ernie screamed at it in return, lifting his gun and firing three shots. They all hit, and the thing fell onto its back. It rose a moment later and began to run after the men with great speed, even though it appeared to be missing both of its legs. Ernie turned to run, but John's frame stopped him from proceeding. He had his six-shooter aimed and ready.

"You have to hit 'em in the head, mister," the gunslinger yelled before pulling the trigger and lodging a bullet directly into the brain of the resurrected man. Again, the undead fell. A smirk spread across John's face, but it quickly dropped when the figure sat up again to give chase. Both men fell back into the mortuary as fast as they could, Ernie slamming the metal door shut while leaning his body against it.

"Oh, god, oh, god," the white-haired embalmer kept repeating, first locking the door and then pulling down the steel shutters in the windows of the room.

Herbert's interest was piqued for the first time since the realization of his time travel had begun to set-in. They had all heard the shots, and both men came running in moments later. It was John's look of utter confusion that baffled him the most, though. Something big had to have happened for his companion to be wearing such a gaze.

"What was that shooting, Ernie?" Burt asked, agitation seething from his every word.

'It- it- it-' was all Ernie could manage in response as he continued his frantic movements to secure every entrance into the room from the outside.

"'It'?! What is 'it', Ernie?! What the hell?"

"They're all over the cars," Ernie managed to say, obviously trying to calm himself. "They're- it's horrible! They're out there. The paramedics are dead and we can't take the cars. We're stuck." As he continued to speak in a hurried pace, his anxiety seemed to overtake his every action. His movements became frantic and he began stumbling over his own words. "We- Bu- No, we've- Burt, we've gotta call the police."

As Ernie scurried his way over to the phone, Burt and Scuz gently sat Frank back down on the couch he had practically been confined to since throwing up outside, and Tina and Spider did the same with Freddy.

Herbert, who had not lifted a finger to help with anything since his outbursts, made his way to a silent, stunned-looking John.

"What happened out there, hmm?" he posed, the question coming out a little more excited than he would have liked it to.

John looked at him for a moment, his eyes squinting slightly. "I- I shot it. I shot it in the head, West, and the damned thing still got up. How the hell is that possible?"

"You shot what, John?"

The fact that John had admitted to shooting something in the head and it still getting up should have been alarming enough, but Herbert needed clarification as to what, exactly, had traumatized the two men in their own ways. After all, numerous animals could take a shot to the head and still survive and who knew what roamed in whatever nook of the world they were in.

"An undead. I've shot 'em in the head before and they dropped like a sack of potatoes, most-uh the time their damned heads just pop like dynamite or something. Hell, I shot a couple of 'em in the head at the morgue and they died, but this thing got up. It got up and kept comin' after us."

This was unexpected. Herbert didn't exactly know what to do with this new-found information, but somehow it made him very excited to be in such a miserable situation.

"No, not- not work- not working..." Ernie blathered as he quickly walked passed Herbert, slightly bumping his shoulder. As he exited the room, Burt, Scuz and Spider followed.

Curious, Herbert walked over to the phone and picked it up. The line was quite dead. Whatever was happening, it was spreading far beyond where they were.

Only a few seconds had passed before the sound of glass breaking could be heard, and it sounded like it came from the front of the building. Neither John or Herbert looked to one another, but they both moved toward the sound out of questioning instinct. They entered the hallway in time to see a collection of arms reaching in through the shattered panes of the front door, the screaming demand of 'Brains!' growing louder as the undead saw the living just beyond the barricade. Four shots rang out as Ernie recklessly fired his pistol at the gathering crowd and the bullets seemed to have an adverse affect, as the noise brought even more bodies screaming for brains. He quickly changed his plan and began to move the giant cabinet that sat next to the door. As he struggled, he looked at the five other men in the area and yelled at them.

"Help me!"

As if breaking from a daze, they all moved in to assist in relocating the piece of furniture to further block the front door.

"You got some hammer and nails?" Spider yelled, reaching over to Ernie to get his attention.

The man quickly nodded and ran off. The others followed, once again leaving Herbert and John by themselves.

"Are those-" Herbert tried to speak, exasperated beyond belief at the simple action of moving a large hunk of wooden furnishing. "Are those the undead you were talking about?!"

"Yeah-huh," John nodded, giving the entryway an odd look as he watched more of the undead move to the side windows and ram their palms onto the glass.

"Those are _not_ like my reanimates!"

"They're not like anything I've seen!"

Suddenly, the cabinet began to fall forward as the swell of bodies behind the door had made both constructs give way. John and Herbert quickly pressed against it, stopping its movement, but only slightly. It was a battle of strength and the two were sorely outnumbered. Hands smashed through the side windows and one just narrowly missed ripping Herbert's glasses from his face... or worse. Four more sets of hands pushed on the cabinet as the other men returned with boxes of nails and various instruments to pound them in with. With their strength tripled, the men easily righted the barrier and immediately began to secure it into place. As they did, the sound of windows shattering could be heard from other rooms and the group knew that they were in for a long night.

* * *

"Man, my arms are dead!" an exhausted Spider exclaimed as he re-entered the embalming room with everyone else. The consideration of using a different word, given their circumstances, never even ran across his mind.

They had been busy nailing boards (and anything else they could find) over windows for the past half-hour and everyone was feeling the drain of their frantic work and the adrenaline rush beginning to fade.

After he loaded a fresh clip into his pistol, Ernie confronted his first two guests. Herbert was cleaning his glasses and John was adjusting his hat after wiping sweat from his brow.

"You lied to me," Ernie accused, looking between the two.

"We- um..." John looked to the doctor in hopes of help. The jig was up, that was for sure, but how were they going to explain their way out of it?

"Yes, we did," Herbert replied very matter-of-factually. "We lied to you because we needed to. John's not my patient, his gun isn't missing its firing pin-"

"Yeah, I put two and two together on that when he fired the damn thing! Why the hell did you need to lie?"

"Because," the doctor continued, appearing as if he had finally regained his full composure from earlier, "the truth is just something you wouldn't have believed until maybe, just maybe, now."

"What truth? Try me!" Ernie again tried his best to appear fearsome and tough, holding his gun in a way that both men could clearly see it.

"The truth is that John here is really a cowboy from 1911 and I, until just recently, was from a town that doesn't even exist anymore, but somehow did just a year from now in 1985."

Ernie scrunched his face up in disbelief. "You- what?!"

Herbert continued without allowing the embalmer the slightest reprieve. "I didn't believe it at first, either. I thought John was out of his mind, but recent developments have led me to think otherwise. John and I were at Da-" There was a slight pause as the doctor stopped himself and awkwardly coughed, looking away for a moment. "We were at my apartment and then there was a flash of white light and we found ourselves outside, getting soaked with a stinging rain, probably less than one-hundred yards from your funeral home here."

"Now wait just a minute, this is ridi-"

"Did you just say you came here from out of a white light?" Spider interrupted, having caught interest in what the three were talking about when Ernie abruptly shouted his skepticism.

"Yes, and?" Herbert rebutted.

"I knew it! I fuckin' knew it! Chuck was right; you two are aliens and probably the assholes who started this whole thing! I oughta bash your brains out and feed 'em to those things out there!" Scuz yelled, visibly looking to make good on his threat as he grabbed the hammer that Spider had just placed on the embalming table. If it wasn't for Burt and Spider holding the man back, John very likely would have made a mess of the young man's head with a bullet or two.

"Just stop, Scuz! Shit!" Spider yelled. "They're not aliens or anything! Chuck's a fuckin' moron." There was a moment of resistance as Scuz tried to pry himself free, but he quickly gave up and dropped his weapon.

"Pull your shit together, man! Fuck!" Spider seemed more annoyed than angry or frightened with his words, and the feeling almost became personified when he turned to John and Herbert with an unquestionable look of rawness on his face. "It does seem pretty weird that all this shit started happenin' right around the same time you two came in that flash of light, though."

Now it was Ernie's turn to interrupt. "Wait, that actually happened? You really saw that?"

Spider nodded in confirmation. "And I saw a whole bunch of thick smoke coming outta the chimney on this place just before that damn rain started and those two showed up!"

Herbert caught Burt and Ernie giving each other worried glances at Spider's words.

"If you did start this, though-"

"They didn't start it," Burt finally admitted. "These two geniuses did." He pointed to the very sick duo of Frank and Freddy.

"It hurts," Freddy groaned, staring at the floor blankly as Tina held him.

"What did you do to Freddy? What's wrong with him? And this man?" she asked in an accusatory tone, fighting back tears. Her question was directed towards Burt.

"Yeah, I think it's time you tell us what the fuck's goin' on," Spider demanded.

"I don't have to tell you anything, dickbrain!"

As Spider grabbed ahold of Burt's arm, Scuz brought out a switchblade and made their point crystal clear with a threat of, 'We think you should!'

After some more prodding from both Freddy and Spider, Burt reluctantly shared the story. He had left for the day, but Frank was staying late and teaching Freddy the ropes while he was at it. Somehow the two had released a military-grade chemical into the air that had both poisoned them and reanimated nearly every formerly-living thing in the medical supply warehouse. To further complicate matters, it had somehow soaked into the ground and brought all of the corpses in the graveyard back to life.

By the time Burt had finished, Herbert had put two and two together himself and figured out exactly what had happened.

"You're all to blame. All four of you. Frank, Freddy, Burt and Ernie," he said in a calm tone.

"You'd better watch your tongue!" Ernie warned. "I had nothing to do with this."

"Oh, but you did. You might not have realized it, but you did. Burt, when the chemical leaked, you said that the warehouse was full of resurrected 'things'." Herbert pronounced the word in a stressed, mocking tone and even provided air-quotes. Even when calm and collected, there was a cynical side to him that couldn't be tamed. "Split dogs, the pinned butterflies, everything, right?"

Burt looked around for a moment, trying to understand where this was going before simply nodding his head.

"And Spider, you said you saw thick smoke rising from this place?"

"Yeah, and it didn't look like any kind of normal smoke, neither."

"Aw, shit! Son of a bitch!" Burt suddenly yelled, realizing what Herbert was alluding to, and the fact that he was very likely right.

"You four burned all of those reanimated specimens in the crematorium here, didn't you?" Now there was a sinister smile on Herbert's face and he had to swallow the impulse to begin laughing like a madman.

"Wait, are you- no. No, no, no, no, no." Ernie was befuddled once again, but this time it was because he was actively trying to deny what he understood. "Are you trying to say that we spread the chemical when we burned all those... those things? And it just so happened to rain shortly after we started? No. No, I don't think so."

"Maybe the chemical induced the rain. Like Burt said, we have no idea what it was, just that it is military grade."

"Aw, shit" Ernie ran a hand through his thinning hair, looking very distraught.

"Is that why Freddy's sick? Because of the chemical?" Tina asked.

"I breathed it, Tina. So did- so did Frank there," Freddy answered.

Spider knelt down to comfort his friends. "What did it do to you, Freddy?"

"I'm freezing and my muscles are stiffening up."

"Stiffening up?" Ernie questioned, his curiosity piqued and, momentarily, released him of the torture running through his head that he was a cause of what was happening outside. "Stiffening up how, Freddy?"

The ill punk went on to explain that it started as a bad headache, and then his stomach started cramping up. The cramping moved all over his body, to his arms, his legs... there wasn't a single part of him that wasn't unbearably sore. After Ernie investigated his back and saw a large bruise covering the half he was lying on, clearly showing that blood was pooling in the area, he had to admit that it looked like rigor mortis was setting in. He looked at Herbert, expecting some sort of snide comment or an 'I told you so,' but the doctor was just staring at the two sick men with his arms crossed. The confirmation that the two men were indeed dead and going through the stages of postmortem sent shock waves through everyone in the room, aside from Herbert and John. A brief moment of hysteria broke out as Scuz rationalized that both Frank and Freddy were dead and they were going to turn into the things outside. It caused an already scared Freddy to begin screaming 'No!' and Tina began to cry even harder. Ernie began to try and shake the mania from Scuz when everyone was distracted by Spider.

"Ow! Fuck! What is this shit?!" he yelled.

Herbert looked outright appalled when he realized the delinquent was rooting through his medicine bag. "What in the hell do you think you're doing?!"

"Just chill out, man, I wasn't tryin' to steal anything. I was tryin' to find some pain pills for those two. Ease up some of that crampin' or somethin'. All I see in here is green shit! What the hell is glowin' in the bottle? Some kinda voodoo medicine bullshit? Cut my palm on this stupid fuckin' green mask you got in here, too."

"What?!" John and Herbert yelled simultaneously. The two looked at each other, expressions of shock and horror growing on their faces.

"Shit! Here we go!" John yelled and both men closed their eyes tightly, squishing up their faces in anticipation of the blinding white light.


	9. The pain of being dead

A few seconds passed, and then a few more without a single sound. John had a creeping feeling that something was up, as the two transitions he had experienced before felt like they were almost instantaneous, but the seconds he had his eyes closed now seemed to take an eternity to pass. Keeping one eye fully closed, he barely opened the other and began to peek at his surroundings. Much to his surprise, he found that he was still in the exact same spot he was before, standing in the funeral home next to Herbert, but with all eyes on them at the moment, even Frank and Freddy.

"John," Herbert whispered. "John, is it over? What happened? Are we outside again?" His eyelids were still fiercely closed.

"What the fuck is wrong with you two crazy-ass honkies?" Spider bellowed, his sights affixed on the two in complete disbelief.

The doctor's eyes popped open at the utterance from another voice and he looked around the room wildly. "I don't- We didn't? What happened?"

"Dunno," the gunslinger shook his head as he began to approach Spider and the medicine bag.

"Jesus Christ," Ernie whispered, half-laughing, "they _are_ crazy..."

John reached into the bag and brought out the mask to examine it.

"What the fuck, man?" Spider asked, unsure of what was going on, but John ignored him.

On either side of the mask, the eye had grown a complete covering of flesh and the eyelids on the front of it were closed, hiding the ball-shaped organ behind them.

Herbert quickly followed John and grabbed at the artifact to closely examine it himself. "It's... closed? How?"

Before John could answer with another 'Dunno', there was a distant wailing sound that was growing louder and closer by the second. John, Burt, and Ernie went to investigate, peering out of the sliding peephole in the door. Spider was going to follow, but Herbert stopped him, citing that he needed to wrap the bleeding cut on his palm. The youth released a long sigh of discontent, but took a seat near the doctor instead of offering any resistance. The sight of the wound, along with the fact that it was dripping blood everywhere, may have been more than enough to grant compliance. A small smirk appeared on Herbert's lips as he grabbed a small roll of gauze from his bag, as well as two small pads made of the same material. He was curious if Spider was now a part of whatever he and John were, or if it was just the doctor's bad luck to fall prey to such a plight.

The wailing sound turned out to be another paramedic ambulance, and as the two EMTs exited the vehicle and quickly spotted the downed body of the technician who had come before them, all three onlookers began to shout warnings out towards them.

"Watch out!"

"Hey! Don't go over there!"

"Get back into your car!"

It was to no avail, as the EMTs clearly couldn't hear the men over the rain and they went into rescue mode as soon as they spotted the body. In mere seconds, they were quickly swarmed and eaten by the undead, one even being tackled by the horde before meeting his demise.

"They're gonna kill everybody that comes here," Spider lamented, after watching the three men grimace and bow their heads at the door.

Herbert finished his wrap job on Spider's hand (not his best work, but it would do in a pinch) and picked the mask up again, peering towards his cowboy companion.

"With all due respect to those poor souls out there, I'm more concerned with them tryin' to get to us in here," John said, somewhat sullenly.

And almost as if his words had triggered a response, the sound of glass breaking echoed in from the storage room where the caskets were held.

"Keep your Goddamn mouth shut next time, cowboy," Burt sneered.

Herbert watched as the three men turned and came running towards him and he lightly grabbed John by the arm as he passed by him. With eyes darting back and forth, he began to whisper, "John, what about the mask? We need to-"

The gunslinger pulled free rather effortlessly and continued on his path as Scuz brushed past him to join a leaving Spider and the other men. "No time, West. We've got bigger fish to fry at the moment."

As the population of the room became less than half of what it was, the doctor turned his attention to Tina and the dead men. Aside from a small attempt to talk to Dr. Hill's re-animated head, Herbert had never truly had a chance to converse with the resurrected and learn how they felt, what they were thinking and if they could sense a change happening. He stared at them for nearly a minute before deciding to engage. "Frank..." He placed his hands in his pockets and took a few steps towards the trio. "Aside from the pain, can you tell me what you feel like? What your insides feel like right now?"

* * *

The five men frantically ran to the storage room, the room where glass was continuing to break and the groans of the dead were almost terrifyingly deafening. After turning the corner, they were slightly shocked to see a collection of the walking dead had pushed through not only the window, but some of the boards that were halting their advance as well. While four of them began savagely batting at the entering limbs, breaking bones and tearing some appendages off completely, Ernie grabbed one of the fallen boards and attempted to nail it back in place. Scuz quickly picked up the other end and stumbled forward, bracing himself against the other boards. It was at that moment that more hands shot through the opening. Most of them just randomly flailed around, but there was one (literally) bony arm that latched onto Scuz's wrist.

"It's got me! Make it let go!" The young man immediately began to scream and yell, trying to pull himself away, but the force of the corpse was far stronger that he could have imagined. Even with Spider and Ernie forcefully yanking on his stud and pin-riddled jacket, Scuz was violently pulled towards the window (almost out of it) and another bony arm wrapped around the back of his neck. John started hitting the other protruding arms with the butt of his gun, hoping to clear some space so the men could get a better and closer grip on their friend.

"Fuck! Please, come on! Help!" Scuz screamed, the terror and desperation in his voice sending shock waves of the feelings through the men behind him. The grasp of the dead proved to be too much for them to counter and Scuz was pulled halfway out of the broken window, bits of jagged glass sliced into his palm as he hopelessly tried to push himself back inside.

There was some sort of inhumane scream, one that almost sounded like elation, quickly followed by a very harrowing one from Scuz and his body suddenly went limp. Spider and Ernie instantly found that the opposing force had suspended and they hauled Scuz back inside, but as they did, a spray of blood began to coat the crisscrossed boards as a half-decomposed corpse continued to tear into the young man's skull. Burt began to swing the axe he had grabbed in a blind craze, hitting the spine of the creature twice, severing it fully with the second strike. Both bodies fell back into the room; Scuz was dead before he hit the floor, his last scream fading out just as the life was in his eyes.

Spider pinned the corpse to the concrete floor with the head of a sledgehammer while Burt dragged Scuz's dead body away from its reach, John and Ernie were busying themselves by nailing a rather large board over the open space the undead had made in the window.

"What do we do with this thing!? What do we do with this?" Spider yelled as the three other men collected around him, eyeing the wiggling half-body.

"Just- just wait there a second," Ernie bellowed and quickly scampered across the room to grab a reacher hook from the corner. He snagged the hook between the mostly-exposed ribs of the undead woman and instructed Spider to let go of it.

"Are you crazy?!"

"What in the hell are you doing?" John asked hoarsely.

"Look at it," Ernie nodded toward the thing, a half-crazy grin spread across his face. The others threw a quick glance at the body and noticed it had a peculiar look of euphoria on its face, the last bit of Scuz's gray matter falling from its lip-less mouth and splattering on the floor.

"It feels better now."

* * *

"...and ...and it almost feels like my brain is asleep or something, and I can't tell if it feels like it's on fire, or it's tingling or- or if there's, like, a thousand little construction workers in there all hammering away," Freddy said through sharp breaths of pain, trying his best to help Frank explain just exactly what was happening in their bodies.

Herbert nodded attentively, wearing a look that read as if he was locking every detail of what the two men were saying into his memory... and he was, too. He was learning so much from this small conversation with the two and he was feverishly trying to compartment it all in the appropriate places in his head while he continued to get more information.

"My face." Frank had finally perked up once again after simply becoming lost in space for the second time during their talk. "My face hurts, too, and it's like I have concrete under my skin and it's beginning to harden. It's getting harder and harder to even move my mouth to talk." He looked paler than ever (both men did, actually) and the muscles in his hands and arms were contracting, giving the appearance that the limbs were withering away on his body. "So, what about it, doc? Do you really think we're dead?"

"Well..." Herbert released a single, awkward laugh and nervously began to fiddle with his glasses, rearranging them ever so slightly when they needed no such thing. He wasn't scared to tell the men they were still dead, he just hated dealing with the emotions of others. The dead could be just as unpredictably erratic in a state of panic as any living person could, he knew that well enough, and there was also a highly emotional female in the room as well.

_Women... they really know how to overreact to everything and ruin it,_ Herbert thought to himself.

Suddenly, Tina spoke, as if he triggered a response simply by thinking about her.

"What happened to your face, doctor?" she asked softly, avoiding any long eye contact and merely throwing a quick glance towards the man.

Herbert knew what she was referring to, he had noticed it himself earlier in the bathroom; shades of large bruises were forming on the bottom portion of his face, mostly following the curve of his jaw bone.

"I was attacked." He had thrown the words out without any feeling or conviction to his voice. They were just flat. He was studying her face as he spoke, taking note of if there was any indication that she gave a damn about his answer or if...

She kept her vision fixed on a shivering, shaking Freddy and, even though he couldn't see her face directly, a side view showed him the earmarks of someone who is on the verge of a tearful breakdown. It was then that he realized she hadn't asked him so she would be a part of the conversation, she had asked to simply _stop_ the conversation. She was likely very, very done with hearing that her boyfriend, possibly the love of her life for all he knew, was dead in her arms and slowly continuing to decompose, lose flexibility and grow colder and colder. Somehow, through the wall of misogyny that made up the foremost opinions and expectations he had of the opposite sex, Herbert felt a tinge of sympathy for the young girl's plight and restrained himself from burdening her further.

His respite would not have mattered much in the long run anyway, for mere moments after he decided to ease off the subject there was the sound of loud banging, shuffling feet and shouts, each growing louder and building off the other.

"Ernie, we gotta get the fuck outta here! Leave it! What're ya doin'? Goddamnit, Ernie!"

The comments were made in rapid succession of one another by their critic (Burt) and it only took a moment for four of the five men who left earlier to re-enter the embalming room, one of them arriving with something quite peculiar.

Tina twisted up her face in horror and disgust, screaming when she realized what was being pushed along the floor by Ernie like the bristled head of a scrub brush. Even in their near-catatonic state of being, both Freddy and Frank recoiled in fear at the half-corpse as it was swept by them.

"What in the hell are you doing?!" Tina hollered, her heightened emotions clearly overtaking her voice as it seemed to rise by several octaves. Her concern was completely ignored by the four men as Ernie stopped just short of an empty embalming table.

"Here, help me get it on the table," he huffed, looking back at the other men for a brief moment before returning his fixed gaze to the body on the floor. The thing had made no sounds, no attempts to reach out for anything or anyone since it had satiated itself with Scuz's brain tissue and he wanted to take advantage of the opportunity while he still could.

Neither Burt or Spider moved behind Ernie, both men still just staring at the back of the man in shock, breathing heavily and trying to decide if he had lost his mind or not. John turned slightly, peering over his shoulder towards Herbert. He needed deeply to communicate a non-verbal protest to someone, a silent cry of 'do you see this shit? what are we doing?', but the expression he witnessed on the doctor's face told him the man was viewing the situation from a completely different angle. It was as if Herbert was in a trance, but he looked like the sight of the living remains were more of a pleasant surprise than a gruesome discovery.

"Guys, the table? I can't get this up there by myself!"

"Christ..." Burt muttered under his breath, finally taking a step closer to his friend... and the thing at his feet. The thought of arguing with the mortician briefly crossed his mind, but he quickly reasoned that it would take less time to just pacify the man and have the whole mess done and over with. "Spider, you get the arms and I'll hold its head."

John quickly fetched a large bundle of orange and black truck rope at Ernie's direction and request. As he did so, he watched Herbert slink his way closer to the group, hands in his pockets and gaze averted as if he wasn't actually interested in what was going on. John had a feeling that that was anything but the case. With how interested the man was with the deceased and his preoccupation of reanimating the poor souls instead of just letting the dead stay dead, there was little doubt that his interest was heavily piqued by what was going on on the embalming table.

"I don't understand what you want with it, Ernie," Burt rumbled, sounding truly at a loss as to what his companion's intentions could be. He watched the creature's eyes flutter back and forth between the gathering men as he and Ernie tied the thing down. Its mouth was agape and it seemed to be in awe, taking in all that was happening around it. It wasn't the rotted-off lips or exposed, blood-stained teeth that got to Burt, it wasn't even the spinal fluid leaking from its served backbone or the way its fake, press-on nails (still somehow attached to the bony, decayed fingers of the beast) would skitter across the skin on the back of his hand while the hands they were attached to clutched at the empty air. No, it was the thing's eyes that got to him the most. He would have expected them to be just as dead as their owner, milky and glazed over, maybe even shriveled prunes of what the icy orbs used to be, but they seemed to be the most alive thing about her. The bright blue irises were crystal clear, and they followed the men with a clarity that sent chills through all of them in their own way. "I mean what are we doing with it?!"

"I wanna examine it!" Ernie exclaimed with a sincere note of excitement in his words.

A visibly eager Herbert suddenly rushed to the table, delivering a slight bump to Burt in the process. "That sounds like the most logical thing anyone has said all night!"

His enthusiasm was met with awkward stares from all but the undead for a moment.

Spider, taking note of the creature's movements, eventually piped up. "Man, you make sure it's tied right."

"It'll be tied right," Ernie assured, applying one last knot to the restraints.

"I mean, it's not gonna get loose, right?"

The mortician released a laugh, as if the question was child-like in nature when three of the five men standing around the table were worried about the same thing. "No, it's not gonna get loose. They're no stronger than humans."

John wanted to call bullshit on the man's statement, especially considering the thing on the table, the body that was almost completely rotted to nothing but bone, had yanked a young, sturdy adult right out of a window when there were two other men pulling in the opposite direction. Before he could call the Ernie's bluff however, the woman snapped her head upwards towards Spider, releasing a guttural hiss and biting its jaw at him. All five men jumped back slightly, Spider even raising the sledgehammer in his hand as if he meant to smash the beast's head in, but he was quickly halted by Ernie.

"Don't be afraid!" he spat out, shifting his gaze equally between the other four.

"I'll buss' it in the damn head! Are you sure that thing's tied good?"

Ernie ignored the young man's continued concern and turned his attention to the bound cadaver, leaning onto the table so he was practically on top of the thing. "You can hear me?"

"Yessss," the woman slowly hissed in reply. It raised up slightly and Ernie moved his head back in accordance.

"Why do you eat people?" he asked.

"Not people," the woman corrected. "Brains!" She sounded almost excited to say the word.

"Brains only?" Ernie inquired and was met with another long, hissing 'yes' in return. "Why?"

"The _pain_!" she cried out in a tone that reeked of genuine agony.

"What about the pain?"

"The pain of being _dead_!"

Ernie straightened himself into a standing position and looked at the other men in a wonderstruck gaze. An equally dazed and surprised laugh escaped him. "It hurts to be dead." The way he repeated the words made it sound as if he was trying to wrap his head around the revelation they had exposed.

"I can feel myself _rot_!" Her cleft spine clanged against the thin metal of the embalming table, splashing in a puddle of spinal fluid and sending small drops of the liquid in every direction. To John, her gruesome, twitching backbone almost resembled the waving tail of a canine that spotted something interesting. He shivered at the thought of mixing such horribly contrasting ideas.

Ernie leaned in again. "Eating brains- how does that make you feel?"

She clasped at his shirt with her bony fingers and the surrounding men jumped back again, Ernie even stuttering at the end of his question.

"It makes the pain go away." Again there was an eerie sense of calm in the woman's voice, leading some of the men to believe that the activity of eating brains was not only a pain relieving one, but delightfully calming to the dead as well.

"Fascinating," Herbert muttered, adjusting his glasses and peering at the corpse with a sliver of appreciation about him. "Absolutely fascinating."

"Hey, look man, fuck this. I gotta talk to you..." Spider blurted, gently pulling Ernie away from the table and motioning for the others to follow. "Now. Out in the hallway. C'mon."

While Spider, Burt, Ernie and John all disappeared behind the metal door that led to the room's exit, Herbert stayed behind, entranced by the spectacle in front of him. This was, by far, the most amazing thing he had ever witnessed. In many respects, it outshined his reagent. He simply had to get his hands on whatever could not only reanimate the dead like this, but seemingly allow them to be fully cognizant as well. The 'brain eating' issue was a downside for sure, but not one that he was busying himself with fussing over just yet. He had only had this kind of success once and it was with a very fresh corpse. This specimen proved that age was truly only an issue for reanimation if you were concerned with looks and the fragility of the unit.

"What- what can you remember from before?" he asked, a fiery look of intensity so stern across his face that a lone vein could be seen throbbing in his forehead. "Before this- before you came back."

"Everything." The reply was abrupt and immediate. Her cold blue eyes almost pierced his as they connected with one another and Herbert involuntarily trembled where he stood for a moment.

"You can remember death? How you died?" he continued, undeterred by his quiver, for he did not know if it was caused by fear or excitement at her answer.

The woman turned her head, staring straight up into the ceiling. "A man," she recalled. "Wrapped his hands around my neck. Large, dirty... cold hands. He kept squeezing, kept saying he was sorry over and over. I couldn't reply, couldn't scream, couldn't fight back. Then everything went black."

A genuine smile spread across Herbert's lips. He wasn't glad that the woman had been murdered (that was a trivial fact that meant nothing to the man), but the fact that she could remember it (and so clearly) made him ecstatic. This chemical, whatever and wherever it was, was the missing piece of the puzzle he had been looking for all these years. It wasn't perfect, no, but he could make it perfect. A ball of happiness burst within the doctor and he could have sworn someone had just injected a shot of serotonin directly into his brain. The comparison made him realize something, and he spread his arms as the four men entered the room again. They were all genuinely perplexed and a little creeped-out by the tight smile on his face.

"I figured it out!" he exclaimed.

"What the hell's wrong with you, West? You screwed in the head or somthin'?" John asked, instantly perturbed by his associate.

Herbert's smile didn't falter. "Endorphins!" His statement was met with silence and blank stares, except for Ernie, who seemed to be following along with the philosophy. "The brain! The brain makes a natural opiate, a painkiller, that is produced when a human body goes through a horribly painful event... like having your head ripped into."

"So?" Spider asked, a hint of indignity wafting in his voice.

"So," Ernie spoke up, nodding to the body on the gurney, "it hurts to be dead, and what better way to alleviate that, to make it 'go away', than by triggering a quick dose of natural painkillers you merely have to bite into?"

"Exactly!" Herbert mused.

"Great. So we're just a temporary relief for these fuckers?" Distraught, Spider kicked at the wheeled table, causing the creature on it to moan in discomfort. His eyes flashed towards Frank, Freddy and Tina and his heart sank a little at the sight. The men were shaking uncontrollably, skin was sickly pale ('ghost white' if he had ever seen such a thing), beads of sweat dripping off their faces like they were in a sauna. And their arms... their arms looked just as stiff and rigid as a new action figure; knuckles knotting up and fingers horribly hooked in ways that made Spider rub at his own hands empathetically. Frank and Freddy were at the end of their rope, no doubt about it, and he knew something had to be done before the two men started trying to eat _his_ brains. He didn't want to give up on Freddy or fear for his life because of his friend, but they couldn't just ignore the inevitable. Solemnly, he turned to the rest of the group. "We, um... we need to deal with them before they become a problem... before we become their temporary relief."


	10. Conscious weighs heavy

The idea of 'containing' Frank and Freddy was met with instant disdain and vitriol from Tina, but she found herself agreeing with the notion once Spider backed the opinion as well. Of the five men making the suggestion, Tina only trusted the voice of her friend, and she knew that he wouldn't want to lock Freddy in a room unless there was a good reason to do so. The service area (or 'Wee Chapel of the Dawn' as Ernie had so aptly named the small space) was quickly decided upon as being the room the two sick men would be contained in and, even with a determined protest from Spider and a reminder that she would be locked in with both men, Tina refused to leave Freddy's side at their new location.

"I'll stay, too," John quickly proposed, raising his hand slightly to no one in particular and looking at the gaping faces of the four other men.

"What are you, an idiot?" Herbert spat out in protest. He may not have been Daniel Cain, but the good doctor was starting to grow comfortable in the company of John Marston (not that he would ever admit such a thing) and did not entirely wish to see it end with an act of stupidity. Chivalrous stupidity at that. He lowered his voice to just above a whisper when he realized how loud he had been. "Don't let that girl's dumb choice put _your_ life in danger."

John listened to his friend's hissed words of warning, but merely shrugged them off. "Our lives are already in danger, West, just take a look outside for proof of that. 'Sides, if they start acting funny, the lady and I will make enough noise for you four brave gents to come save our foolish souls."

Herbert rolled his eyes and let out a huff of discontent; John's biting sarcasm was still something he was becoming adjusted to. There was no use arguing with the gunslinger at this point though, he knew that.

* * *

As the four men returned to the embalming room, all arguing about the best plan of escape, Spider shushed the group's squabbling, quickly making his way to the door as his ears confirmed the sound of a rumbling engine approaching.

"What is it?" Herbert asked as the punk positioned himself in front of the sliding peephole.

Spider shook his head. "Not sure. Maybe another ambulance." He moved the covering slowly, trying to make sure there wasn't a hand waiting to fly in from the outside and grab his face. "Cops. It's the cops," he confirmed at the sight of the Chrysler Newport with the red and blue flashers on top of it. Burt and Ernie hastily crowded towards the door slit, eager to see what was going on and determine if they could use this opportunity to get everyone out of the damned mortuary and into a safe place. Herbert pushed his way into the cluster as well, not wanting to be the odd man out in all of the excitement. Everyone jockeyed for position, intended shouts of distress being cut short by a bump or nudge from someone else who planned to do the same. A yell from outside caused each man to freeze in their spot and stare with horrified looks at the events that unfolded in front of them.

"Hold it right there!"

The officers were out of their vehicle and had been cautiously moving closer to the ambulance, trying to gauge the eerie quiet that enveloped the scene they arrived at. It didn't take more than a minute for the undead to start engaging their targets, moving out from their hidden spots behind trees, cars and other visually-obstructing objects.

"Freeze or I'll blow your fucking brains out!" the other officer yelled, his partner letting out a blast from his shotgun a moment later. That was all it took to spark the chaos and both officers opened full fire on the encroaching mass of bodies; their bullets proving to be completely useless to stop the horde.

The four individuals watched as the policemen were surrounded and then attacked by the collection of living dead, each expressing their own form of disappointment.

"This place," Ernie stated in a defeated voice, "everybody that comes in... gets swallowed up." He slid the peephole cover shut again as the other men slinked back into the center of the room, hearts and hopes quite noticeably shaken.

"Well, what are we gonna do?" Spider asked, taking a seat atop Ernie's work desk. "Stand around here beatin' our meat 'til the corpses bust in this damn place? There ain't no way to stop those things; we gotta get the fuck out."

"We gotta get to the cars," Burt insisted, placing his hands on his hips and half-agreeing with the younger man.

"There's corpses all over the cars!"

"I know that!"

"What are you proposing?" Ernie jutted in, trying to avoid another clash that would deteriorate the conversation into arguments.

Spider pointed to himself, a look of surprise overtaking him briefly. "What am I proposin'? I think we all should do some damn proposin'! What about you, Doctor Whatever-your-name is? You've been awfully quiet."

"West. Doctor Herbert West," Herbert sneered, contempt seething in his voice. "And Burt is right; we need to get to the cars. They're our only chance to get away from these things and actually make a plan for what to do after that."

"Or..." Ernie chimed in, his gaze drifting up above him. "The crawlspace in the ceiling." He pointed to the opening with his index finger. "We could go up, barricade ourselves in. The only way up is through the hatch and we could nail that shut." Though he sounded confident in his words, the look on the man's face read that he knew that idea was sketchy at best.

Spider read Ernie's facial expression as well, and lost all interest in the idea. "You must be out of your fuckin' mind." He waved off the proposal. "I'm not barricadin' myself in no damn roof. Shit, I'd rather take my chances with the cars."

"We need a way to fight 'em," Burt relayed, feeling fairly confident that everyone was on the 'go for the cars' train now. While Burt, Herbert and Spider all looked around, trying to find something better than the melee weapons thay had in their hands, Ernie walked over to a metal shelving unit and grabbed a glass bottle of liquid.

"How about this?" He held the jar up for all to see, almost presenting it like a QVC model trying to sell a cheap item in a shiny skin.

Everyone looked, but it was Spider who asked the obvious question. "What is it?"

"It's nitric acid. Pretty much destroy anything."

"Yes, and we can use it if we just want to piss those things off." Herbert was rather nonchalant in both tone and mannerism when he spoke, garnering disapproving stares from the other occupants of the room. "Look, there's hardly any acid in that jar when you compare it to the mass amounts of brain-eating bodies outside and even still, these things don't respond to pain like you or I would. They may feel it and scream out, but they won't cower back from it. If anything, I can see a mild reaction at best before one of them grabs at you with its nitric acid-laced hand and sears whatever part of you it touched with a burning pain before biting into your skull."

After a few more moments of stunned silence, Spider once again broke the silence by speaking a collective thought. "You really are an asshole, you know that?"

"And those things really are smarter and more resilient than we're giving them credit for, you know that?" Herbert spat back. "Did you see what happened out there, hmm Spider? Did you?" He did not wait for a confirming nod or peep from the punk. "They weren't out there stumbling around, moaning and groaning when the cops came, were they? Noooo. They were hiding, biding their time until the two idiots were out in the open and they could swarm them. It may not be the most popular notion that these creature fascinate me, but just think about it! They're conscious, calculating and deliberate in their actions. That was some sort of coordinated ambush out there. Don't try to tell me it wasn't!"

The others were silent during Herbert's tirade. All of them realizing that he had solid points to which there were no counter arguments to be made. With this understanding came a deepening fear of what was just beyond the door, and even deeper doubt about how they were going to get through it.

"Not only that," Herbert continued, unabated by the silent stares and drooping faces, "but they're one whole hell of a lot tougher than we are. Those officers unloaded the capacity of their weapons on them and not a single one of them dropped before it was dinner time. We've swung axes, metal pipes, sledgehammers and whatever else we could find at them and they just kept pushing forward. The only thing we have put up that has stopped them are barriers, and sooner or later they will make it through those, too. Forget about fighting them, gentlemen. Those cars are our _only_ hope."

* * *

The screams and moans inside the chapel from the two sick men were reaching unbearable volumes. John had winced at the cries so often that his face began to hurt, and his ears ached... not only from the piercing wails, but from him sticking his fingers in them to block out the noise, too. It was hard to even look at the men anymore. Red, puffy circles of irritated flesh rounded their eyes, while foaming red-ish secretions of God-knows-what oozed from their mouths in goopy, clumped streams.

The girl though... John had to admire her willpower, her strength, her love for the man who was dying in her arms. It was that personal determination in her that reminded him of his lovely Abigail. She had the same drive, the same force in her... and seeing it again made the cowboy sick with a longing to be back home again, to be with his family again and just have this whole nightmare truly be that... a nightmare. He stayed with Tina to protect the girl, yes, but if he was going to be truthful with himself, he also stayed because she was the closest he had felt to home since he was ripped away from it all, and he needed that near him.

John listened to Freddy scream and watched Tina try to console him while fighting back a flood of tears that were slowly breaking through her attempts to quell them.

"It hurts!" Freddy groaned, half gargling the words out through the frothy sputum working its way up his system. "It hurts more than you can imagine!"

John had no doubt the boy had never spoke truer words in all his life. Suddenly Freddy's face lost all expression and his eyes widened. John had witnessed this look countless times. Hell, he had _caused_ it countless times. It was the look of death, and with it, at least, John hoped that Freddy's soul would finally be at rest and his suffering no more. Just to be on the safe side, however, John crept closer to the duo and hovered his hand over the butt of his revolver. As he watched the young man's eyes roll back into his head and his chest cease to heave, the repetition of Scuz's words echoed in John's head.

_You're dead! You're dead, man, and you're gonna turn into one of those things out there!_

The gunslinger shook his head and pleaded internally, _Please let him be wrong. Please._

"Freddy!" Tina mourned and began to bawl instantly, followed by a short stint of shaking her beau before finally burrowing her head in the crevice between his shoulder and neck and letting loose with her storm of anguish. John thought better of what he was doing for a moment, of allowing the girl some space to grieve properly, but he noticed Freddy's eyes pull back down into the center of his eyelids. They looked clear, concentrated... and driven, just like the female half-corpse in the embalming room.

John inhaled sharply at the sight, lowering his hand and embracing his gun's grip with a tight hold.

As a sick smile spread across Freddy's face and he tilted his head slightly, garnering Tina's attention.

John spoke out, softly at first, "Miss..."

Tina didn't pay attention, a look of relief washing over her face as her boyfriend's continued movement.

"I can finally see the one thing..." Freddy spoke with a clarity that had been lost in his voice ever since he began to feel sick. "The one thing only that can relieve this horrible suffering."

John tried again, inching closer and raising his voice slightly. "Miss..."

Again Tina could not hear his words, her focus too heavy on Freddy, watching him as he slide in her arms slightly to face her. "What, Freddy?" It was clear that all she wanted to do was help him feel better, to stop his screams and his pain.

"Live brains!" Freddy yelled, reaching back and grabbing a clump of Tina's hair.

John cursed at his slowed reaction, only making it to the pair in time to kick the crazed man in the face a mere moment after his girlfriend had managed to push him away from her. A glass-shattering scream escaped her mouth at the realization that she was just inches and moments from being Freddy's favorite food instead of his favorite girl. She scampered to the other side of the room as a deafening shot rang out in the confined space, bouncing off the walls and increasing the noise tenfold.

John had drawn his weapon and shot the now-resurrected Freddy in the left leg, right in the meat of his upper thigh. Before he could warn the young man to stay down he was almost on his feet again, so John fired another well-placed round right into Freddy's right foot. The man had screamed with each shot that hit him, but the deterrent only seemed momentary.

"Stay do-" John began to command, but fired two more rounds in quick succession right into Freddy's chest when he was once again rushed. John knew that the thing he was shooting at was no longer human, no longer Freddy, but he still hated having to take these extreme measure in front of a lady regardless, much less with one that was romantically entangled with his target beforehand.

Freddy fell back with each blast to his chest, but he did not fall down. He looked at his bloodied shirt before releasing another inhumane growl, strands of red spittle flying from his lips with the force of air he released. John fired one more bullet, directly at the undead's head, and watched the creature fall back forcefully with the hit. The gunslinger promptly made his way to a seemingly frozen Tina and gently, but quickly, guided her passed the three rows of pews to the locked double-door entrance. If the others weren't there yet, they didn't have time to wait for the doors to be unlocked; John would simply have to bust through them. One of the sick men had already turned and, now that he thought about it, the cowboy had no idea where the other man was anymore. He had become lost in the chaos that quickly erupted.

Another bizarre grunt flared from behind him and John turned on his heel to see Freddy was back on his feet, blood streaming from the fresh gunshot wounds riddling his body. Raising his gun again, John moved his other arm back behind him, shielding the girl and making sure she did not dart out into danger.

There was an empty 'click' sound as he pulled the trigger, the barren cylinder rotating to the next, equally barren chamber. He had spent five bullets on Freddy already and forgot to reload the shot he wasted outside on the other corpse. His five remaining bullets were nestled tightly in the bullet loops on the back of his belt.

"Shit!" John yelled, part in fear and part in surprise. He didn't have time to unsheathe his knife and slash away; Freddy was already barreling over the pews that divided them, teeth bared and ready for chomping. There was little time to even brace for impact and all John could do was draw his arm back and in front of his face, a last resort form of protection.

_So, this is it?_ The thought flew through his mind and if he could have placed a tone to the question it would've been utter disappointment. The man had faced more gun barrels than he would ever admit to, held by both outlaws and lawmen alike, and he had _always_ been the one who walked away, and now some drooling dead kid was going to be the cause of his eternal rest? It wasn't as if John had any ambitions of going out in a fantastic blaze of glory, as he would much rather just have passed in his sleep next to his Abigail, but he would certainly take almost anything over this kind of ending. It wasn't proper... it wasn't right.

Out of his peripheral vision, the gunslinger could spot Tina's tiny frame racing passed him, a blur of something held in her arms as she moved forward. With a savage grunt, the girl propelled a metal candlestick (the thing being almost as tall as she was) into her undead boyfriend's midsection. The hit knocked Freddy back, tumbling into the pews and overturning one of them. Tina backed up, tripping over her own feet and falling only for a moment before being caught and steadied by John's strong hands. At the same time he broke the woman's fall, the chapel's doors burst open with Burt and Spider flying into the room. The already-chaotic area swiftly turned into pure pandemonium as both men tried to down the returned Freddy with repeated blows from their weapons. No matter where they hit the young man, nor how hard, the determined corpse kept getting back up, nearly biting both men during the short scuffle. After quickly handing Tina off to Herbert just outside of the chapel entrance, John tried to jump into the fray and help the two men subdue their rabid opponent, but Ernie, who had been hovering in the background since the fight started, beat him to the punch when the opportunity arose and splashed the entire bottle of nitric acid across Freddy's face. As the living corpse screamed in agony and began to writhe on the floor, everyone retreated from the room and slammed the doors shut.

While the mortician once again locked the chapel, John tried to regain his focus, watching as Spider picked Tina up from her near-catatonic fetal position on the floor.

He spun around suddenly, looking every way he could before spinning around once again. "Where's West?" he asked, but no one answered him. "Hey! Where's the damn doctor?" he roared in frustration as Spider and Burt continued to seemingly ignore him and move forward.

"I'd stop worrying about the doctor and be more concerned with your own ass!" Ernie offered as he ran passed John, towards the other men.

"Goddammit, West!" the gunslinger shouted, picking up his pace.

There was no Herbert when the group made it back to the embalming room, and John's anger soon turned to concern over the missing man's well-being. A quick glance near the couch displayed that the doctor's medicine bag was still where it had been left after Spider's wound had been attended to, and John had a strong feeling that it wasn't something that would just be left behind considering how concerned West was about its whereabouts after the incident at the morgue. And, now that he was really thinking about things, it occurred to the gunslinger that he had lost track of Frank while Freddy was attacking him. They were both out there somewhere, beyond that door, and John had no idea who he'd run into first if he went looking. The fear was rather moot, as their stay in the room lasted for no longer than five minutes (most of it spent by the group trying to calm a crumbling Spider) and was interrupted by the sounds of banging and crashing echoing from down the hallway. Someone was trying to get in or out of part of the funeral home, and if they didn't put a stop to it, that someone would be successful.

* * *

Herbert clung to the walls as he crept back to the embalming room, the distance between him and the banging in the hallway becoming shorter and shorter with each step. It was Freddy, he reasoned, it had to be. The thought of anyone else having turned so quickly was somewhat unsettling to him, especially after witnessing how aggressive the hunger could make the creatures. Then again, he also just learned that even though the primitive instincts for survival were strong, they could be overcome. Frank was a shining example of that. Well, more like a 'burning' example now, as the case turned out to be.

Herbert had followed Frank after watching him creep out of the chapel and scuttle down the hall. John had nearly ruined the whole thing by placing a shaking, sobbing Tina into the doctor's arms, as if she was now _his_ responsibility, but luckily for Herbert, Tina was in an unresponsive stupor and he simply let the female slide out of his grip and into a heap on the floor. Satisfied that she would be fine with the wall of men between her and Freddy, Herbert disappeared down the hall after Frank. When he finally found him, it was not at all where he would have expected him to be: the funeral home's on-site crematorium. Herbert's jaw dropped as he silently watched the man and understood what he was doing through his actions. As the machine came to life, bathing the room with a glowing, flickering light, it became apparent that Frank had no intentions of eating any brains. He merely wanted to change his new existence the only way he knew worked, and that was by incinerating himself. It was a grisly notion, and one that made the doctor's gut sink just thinking about it, but he continued to watch nonetheless. Frank slid his wedding band off his finger and brought it to his lips, delivering on last kiss to it before sliding the ring over one of the machine's many switches. Falling to his knees, he held his hands up in prayer and uttered his last words, 'Forgive me.'

The words horrified Herbert almost as much as the man's actions, for their context spoke volumes about just how "human" the living corpse still was. As Frank entered the crematory and the large door slid shut (by this point it was certain there was no way for Frank to escape from his own decision), Herbert composed himself once again and realized he needed to find the others quickly. The man's screams of agony bored into his ears and would not soon be forgotten, and they only made him hasten his exit.

As he turned the corner, finally rounding the bend to the area where the chapel was, Herbert almost ran right into John's larger frame.

"There you are!" John breathed.

The doctor smiled slightly, but the gesture fell from his face when he noticed how angry the cowboy suddenly appeared. John grabbed at either side of Herbert's lab coat and pulled him close, lifting him off the ground slightly.

"You little rat!" the gunslinger yelled. "Leaving the girl like that; what the hell is wrong with you?"

"S-s-she was fine!" Herbert protested, stuttering in his defense.

With a hearty thrust, John threw the man to the ground; the intent to knock some sense into him written clearly on his face.

A loud 'Ooooof!' escaped Herbert's lips as he collided with the floor and the wind was knocked out of him. His diaphragm froze, leaving the man unable to suck in a breathe no matter how hard he tried. It passed after a moment, but once he inhaled a large gulp of air, he immediately began to cough violently, his already sore and stinging lungs not ready for the rapid reintroduction of oxygen. "You-" Herbert tried, but another cough cut him off, the pain in his ribs becoming so bad that it was cutting through the mild-wall that the ibuprofen had created. "Not all of us want to be heroes, John. Your conscious may weigh heavy for these people, but mine doesn't!"

Upon uttering the bitter words, Herbert knew instantly that he had made a mistake. John's face hardened to a look that would've certainly killed if it was in the realm of possibilities and the doctor quickly backtracked, throwing his hands up upon the sight of the gunslinger's advancing movement.

"Wait!" A sudden, unexpected fear had overwhelmed Herbert from the thought of a real physical assault at the hands of an able-bodied John. "Frank left the chapel!"

John stopped, but the glow of anger did not dim in his eyes at all.

"I had to- I had to follow him! I had to make sure he wasn't going to ambush us or break down the boards and let more of those things in!"

"Well, where the hell is he?" Outrage still seethed from John's voice, and he still had half a mind to deliver a swift kick or two to the doctor.

"He's not... a concern anymore."

John released a pert sound of amusement from his mouth, his fierce grimace loosening slightly. "And here I thought you just said your conscious didn't weigh heavy for these people. So why even bother followin' Frank? Makin' sure he wasn't a concern no more? You care, West; you may not know it, but you do."

The thought of countering John popped into the doctor's head; all ideas of contrary reasons why Herbert had done what he had done flowing into his head. But he stilled them there, not at all interested in reigniting the fire under John and endangering his own safety at the same time.

The sound of Ernie yelling out in pain and falling backwards broke the two out of their back and forth. Burt and Spider had grabbed a wooden bench to place in front of the splintering chapel doors and Ernie attempted to help them place it, but only ended up getting in the way when Spider dropped his end on the floor, right on top of the mortician's foot.

John attended to the fallen man while Herbert scampered to his feet, still unsure of if the tension had been diffused or not.

After wedging the piece of furniture as close to the doors as they could, all four men rushed back to the embalming room, John and Burt helping Ernie limp along.

As they passed by the storage room, Herbert peered inside and was surprised to see the body of Scuz lying on the floor. He had forgotten all about the young man once he disappeared.

_Out of sight, out of mind,_ he chimed in his head. But now he wasn't out of sight. Scuz's bloodied face and lifeless body were less than twenty feet away and something about it read oddly to Herbert. The problem was that he didn't know what was sending him such strange signals about it, and he had no time to figure it out either.

* * *

"We can't stay here no more man. He's gonna come bustin' through that door in a minute!" Spider commented, helping to ease Ernie into a chair as Burt went back to lock the door.

"We gotta run for the cars!" They were running out of time and their safe place would no longer be safe. Burt knew this and affirmed their best plan of action.

Spider moved towards Tina, trying his best to check on the girl who had curled herself into a ball, burying her face in the couch cushions. "There's zombies all over the cars outside."

Herbert silently brought a spare chair over to the mortician and sat it in front of him, motioning for the man to elevate his foot on it. Both men began to examine his injured appendage, and after only a few seconds, they exchanged silent, knowing looks of concern.

"Gotta fight our way through 'em. There's no other way. If we can get to a car and start moving, I think we'll be alright." Burt was trying to stay as optimistic as he could, given the circumstances.

"That's a big fuckin' 'if', man."

Ernie began to shake his head. "I can't walk..."

"Much less run," Herbert added, the dry, cynical tone returning to his voice.

"How bad is your foot, Ernie?" Burt asked, stooping down to be at eye level with his friend. Spider joined at the opposite side.

"Broke," the man replied with a sigh, trying to remove his shoe and feeling how swollen his ankle was getting and the familiar impression of fractured bone shifting under the skin when even a slight pressure was applied to it. He had ran into the abnormality enough on cadavers, but he himself had been lucky enough to never experience a broken bone before in his life... until tonight.

Herbert smoothed his hand over the growing lump atop Ernie's foot once the shoe was removed. He winced slightly at the sound of the mortician sucking in a painful breath when he pushed on an area of interest. "Hmm," the man hummed, staring at the bloated extremity intently. "Without an x-ray, I can't be completely sure, but I would guess that you have one, if not several, fractured metatarsal bones here."

With the discovery, the group had some decisions to make and plans to adjust. Burt stood by the door and looked out of the sliding peep hole one more time, trying to weave a safe pattern from the door to the one of the many cars parked around the backside of the mortuary.

"Okay," he finally broke the silence in the room. "Spider, John and I will get one of the cars..."

Herbert and John exchanged glances at the mention of the cowboy's name. There was a hitch in this plan already and they needed to speak up about it before it went into action.

"We'll bring it up here to the door-"

"Police car," the young punk interrupted. "It should still have the keys in the ignition."

Burt looked outside again, directly ahead, and noticed something that made him smile. "Son of a bitch- the motor's still running!"

"Good. I'll drive."

"No." He looked back at Spider with his smile turning almost pompous, as if he somehow knew the kid was, in actuality, a rather horrible driver. "I'll drive."

"Hey, fuck you!"

Burt ignored the childish outburst and continued on. "Now look, when we drive up, I don't wanna hang out there any longer than necessary, so, young lady," he reached out to Tina, who had somewhat regained her composure and was standing next to the door while Burt talked, "you stand right here. Put one hand here and one hand here." He placed her hands exactly where he wanted them to be so she would be ready when he needed her to be. "When I say 'now', you open the door fast and the minute we're through you slam it shut, and lock it."

Tina simply nodded her head frantically in place of a spoken reply.

Burt looked at the mortician, who appeared to be lost in space, staring at the swollen mass on his foot. "Ernie, get your ass over here at the door. You too, doctor."

"We need to, uh..." Herbert began as he walked towards the group at the door, his medicine bag nearly clutched to his chest.

"We need to switch the order a little here." John had followed directly behind the doctor and spoke up on his behalf.

"What?" Burt squinted. "What are you talking about?"

"You two take West with you to fetch a car and I'll stay behind with Ernie and the lady here."

Herbert's expression changed to shock. That wasn't what he was going to suggest at all. He was going to have John stay inside with him and the others, because if the car plan fell apart and they lost the men attempting to pull it off, they couldn't afford for John to be one of the casualties. Now that their roles were switched, however, Herbert was even more perturbed. "What?! No, that-"

"Look, we need someone who can move fast and carry these two for a coupla feet if needed, right? You think you can do that, West, or you want me to?"

Herbert didn't reply. He was between a rock and a hard spot, really, as the chances of Ernie needing help were almost guaranteed, and it would take even longer for four addition people to try to quickly jam themselves into a vehicle. By the same standards though, he wasn't a fighter and he could barely run. Even jogging up the stairs from Dan's basement usually caused him to huff and wheeze for a few minutes.

"Alright, fine," Burt mumbled, settling the matter before Herbert could further protest. "Everybody stand by."

Herbert gulped audibly. There was no further time to plan and anxiety was practically boiling over in him as he was about to run around a mass of the undead like a chicken with its head cut off.

Ernie handed the doctor a bone mallet and offered a sympathetic look before relaying one last piece of advise. "Watch your ass out there. All of you." With a grim look on his face, he nodded to Burt.

Burt returned the gesture with a smile, but the rest of his expression had the same hopeless appearance to it. He took in a deep breath and held the length of pipe he had with both hands.

"Now!"


	11. Friends?

Tina tugged the door open and Burt quickly ran out, followed by Spider. Herbert tried to move at the same pace but stumbled in his footing slightly before Tina slammed the door shut, hitting the doctor in the shoulder with it and pushing him outside. Spider and Burt were already making headway, swinging their weapons and moving forward at the same time. If Herbert didn't move soon, he would be chow for the undead, as they were quickly filling in the path the other men had just made. But he was frozen with fear, even the throb from his shoulder not permeating it, until John's voice shouted from behind him.

"Go!"

The doctor glanced back to see his companion's face peering through the peep hole and the barrel of his gun sliding into view as well. Herbert jolted forward and hoped that John was a good aim with a mass of moving targets.

Three shots rang out as Herbert joined the others, and they all turned around to see that there was literally a wall of the walking dead between them and the mortuary. There was no going back now, no matter what. If things went to shit they were all dead, and that extra bit of fear motivated each man to push a little harder as they neared the police car.

Surprisingly, the doctor was the first to make it. Though the two front doors were wide open, he quickly opened the back passenger door and got in, assuming that the dead would be nipping at the heels of the other two and even a split-second spent opening a door could be the death of them. Spider and Burt were in the car before the doctor could even shut his door, and the dead were covering the vehicle almost instantly. A hand reached in through the rolled-down passenger-side window and attempted to grab Spider. Herbert bashed at the forearm with his hammer, losing the tool once it became embedded in a gash it had opened up. Spider shoved the man away from the door and quickly rolled up his window.

"Thanks, man," he acknowledged, validating Herbert's efforts.

The police car shot forward, running over several of the swarm while a few others jumped onto the hood and climbed onto the roof. Everything was happening so fast that Herbert couldn't think, he couldn't calculate what was occuring or what to do next. As the vehicle jerked to a stop in front of the mortuary, bodies of the undead flying from the hood and roof to crumpled heaps on the ground before stirring once again, it became quite apparent that this part of the plan, the whole backbone of it really, was shot to hell. The car was crowded again, this time with even more bodies, and the mass was so thick that nothing but hands, feet and rotting faces could be seen from the windows of the car.

"We gotta get closer, man. They're never gonna make it like this!"

Spider was absolutely correct in his statement, as anyone who even tried to go near the car at this point would simply be fulfilling a death wish, but Burt knew there was no 'getting closer' anymore. The small window of opportunity they had was closed, slammed shut... and now it was time for a plan B when there was no plan B.

Burt tried to look back behind him, but the rear window was just as obscured with bodies as the front windshield was. The car began to rock back and forth as the corpses outside pushed violently, attempting to overturn the automobile.

"We gotta split! We gotta split!" the warehouse owner finally conceded, throwing the car into reverse.

Spider shook his head in protest. "No, we can't split!"

His objection on the issue didn't matter, as Burt rammed his foot on the gas and shot the vehicle, and all three men inside, backwards. A quick twist of the wheel and the car spun around back onto the road, flying forward as Burt shifted gears.

"What are ya doin'? We can't just leave 'em!" Spider was almost beside himself in both shock and disdain at what was happening.

"They would've turned the Goddamn car over. We'll send help."

The car weaved through scattered bunches of the undead as Burt tried to navigate the crumbled asphalt and verbally justify his actions at the same time.

"Bullshit! Those are my fuckin' friends back there!"

"I said we'll send help, man!"

"Coward!"

"Fuck you!"

Herbert turned in his seat while the two argued, looking back at the hoard of bodies that were becoming smaller and smaller with distance. He had to wonder about Spider's declaration and how he had used the word 'friends'. Plural, not singular.

As far as the doctor knew, Tina was the only one of Spider's original friends there who was still among the living, so he must have been referring to John and Ernie in his argument as well.

_Could you really be friends with someone you just met a few hours ago? Especially under these circumstances?_ Herbert wondered to himself. Time seemed to slow as he pursued the issue further. _Is John my friend? Am I his friend?_ It was a peculiar question the doctor found himself asking. He was used to being an acquaintance, a colleague, even an accomplice a time or two, but a friend? That was something he had never been, and something he had never really had before. _Politics makes strange bedfellows, and I suppose an undead apocalypse does too,_ he finally decided, waving off the notion of friendship.

Herbert was brought back to reality when the automobile crashed through the cemetery gates, the red and blue flashers ripped from the hood and smashing onto the ground as they sped ahead. The crash jolted Herbert forward in his seat, nearly colliding with the back of Spider's. A moment later that was another abrupt stop and the doctor was flung back in his seat. "What the hell is wrong with y-"

"Jesus H. Christ!" Burt spat out, cutting the doctor's complaint short.

Herbert's eyes widened at the sight of what was was in front of them. The road was completely blocked by another collection of the undead, this one rivaling the size of the group from the graveyard.

"Back to the warehouse!" Burt announced, seemingly to no one in particular, as he once again spun the steering wheel in his hands and changed direction.

Upon their hasty arrival at the new location, there were two creatures standing in front of the building, ready to pounce as soon as any of the men exited the vehicle. Burt did the only thing he could think of at the time. He rammed the two dead men and sent them, and the front end of the police car, crashing through the shoddily-made concrete block storage garage, stomping on the brake barely in the nick of time to avoid serious injuries to those inside the cruiser.

While a cloud of dust immediately beset over the windshield, obscuring any view from it, Burt tried to open his door, only to find that it wouldn't budge. Spider, coughing at the alarming rate of smoke pouring in from the air vents, pulled on his door handle and kicked the thing open. He jumped out of his seat and began to pull Burt out with him.

"Come on! This way, you stupid honkey!"

As he stumbled out of the car, Herbert caught sight of gushing gasoline catching fire just under the automobile. Something had punctured the gas tank and sparked a fire that was spreading quickly. The spectacle, ironically, lit a figurative fire under his ass and he quickly beat feet to the door, along with the other two men.

The entrance opened as soon as the men were close to it and all three rushed through without a second thought as to who was going to greet them behind the structure.

While Herbert looked at the two new individuals, the medicine bag handle held tight in his fist and ready to swing the thing if he needed to, it appeared as if Spider was already well-acquainted with the suit-wearing man and the girl who vaguely reminded the doctor of one of the all-too-common pop stars that his generation were adoring for no reason. Her poofed, dark hair had vivid streaks of blue running through it while gaudy party jewelry adorned her neck, wrists and ears, and her shirt was even cut in such a way that it hung over her shoulder, revealing the pink strap of her sports bra and a good portion of skin.

Relief poured over Spider at the sight of his two friends again. Casey was a given, but he never knew he would be so happy to see Chuck. Then again, friendship took on a whole new meaning when he watched a couple of his circle die in front of him and the need to hold on to the ones that were left grew almost unbearable.

"Hey, bud," Chuck said through a smile as Spider pulled him in for a hug. He returned the squeeze emphatically, feeling the same relief that not everyone he knew and loved was dead.

Casey gleamed with a smile for the first time since they had been drenched in the burning rain. "Where is everybody?"

A shadow of doubt clouded Spider's face as he went it to hug the girl as well. "I don't know," he answered, rather mundanely.

Herbert gave Spider a strange look as the man lied to his friend. _Is this part of friendship as well? Lying to people? Hell, I've been doing that my whole life._

Though lying to those he considered friends was hard for Spider, he also felt that this semi-happy reunion was not the place to tell them that the only one still alive was Tina. He released his hold on Casey and peered out the window at the burning police car.

"Well, who're they?" Chuck asked.

Without even looking at the men, Spider made their introductions. "The guy dressed like a doctor is a doctor, and the other guy owns this place. Hey, that fuckin' car is totaled, man."

Burt waved off the young man's concern. "It's alright. My car is still out there, and so is Frank's."

The window suddenly bathed the inside of the warehouse in an intense orange glow and there was a loud explosion that vibrated through the walls and shook the window panes. All who witnessed the squad car detonate like the ticking time bomb it was instinctively flinched back, and then everyone crowded the window to see the damage.

Herbert's stomach sank at the sight, and the words he heard next seemed to be the manifestation of his disappointment.

"Not anymore..." Spider sighed, his eyes glued to the two twisted frames of metal that used to be the other cars parked next to the destroyed cruiser. Frank's Volkswagen Rabbit and Burt's Chevrolet Corvette were toast.

* * *

"They left us! Those jerks!" Tina bemoaned as she watched the police car first attempt to pull up to the mortuary door and ultimately back out and drive away completely. Her voice was shrill and hoarse, filled with defeat. The space between where she was and the road ahead quickly filled with walking corpses once again and she would have screamed and fallen to the ground if she thought it would make her feel any better about what just happened.

_One try? One try and that's it?_ she cried in her head, hoping she was wrong and they were coming back for another attempt. The taillights kept moving further away, though.

"They left us!"

"They had to!" Ernie reasoned, sliding the peephole shut so the girl could not negatively feed on the image of their one hope leaving them behind. "Burt'll send help. I know him." Though Ernie believed in his friend, he also knew the circumstances were dire, and even if help was sent it may not arrive before Freddy had dined on a three-course meal of brains.

John could read the look of discouragement and panic on the man's voice and he simply shook his head at the fact that he felt almost exactly the same. He wouldn't have been happy either way, not in the mortuary or in the car with Spider and Burt, but if he had known the whole thing would fall apart in under a minute, he never would've spent three of his last five rounds to ensure the trio made it to the car. Now he only had two shots to subdue the raging, dead madman that was screaming down the halls.

"They left us." Tina could not get over her words, she could not get passed them because the idea they entertained just seemed so outrageous to her. Spider never would have just ran out on her or any of their friends. He had to be coming back... she had to hold on to that hope.

The door leading to the interior of the building suddenly began to bulge inward as rapid, successive blows were delivered to it from the other side. It was Freddy, the screams were proof enough of that, and he was determined and honing in on his prey. A frantic looking Ernie made eye contact with John and pointed to the corner of the room. The cowboy nodded and ran over to the ladder that was stored there. The less noise they made, the less agitated they would make the undead outside their door, and the more time they would have to get to a safer place. Ernie hopped to the placed ladder and ushered Tina up the rungs first, following behind her and allowing John to pull up the rear as they all threw quick glances to the door that would undoubtedly give way at any moment. The screams coming from the other side almost sounded inhuman.

They all made it into the attic just in time, for as John was pulling himself up into the crawlspace, Freddy burst through the door. He quickly reached down to grab the ladder and pull it up with them, but he had miscalculated how close it was and ended up whacking the structure with his forearm, sending it toppling to the floor.

His arm stung, but the knowledge that Freddy, even blinded from the acid, could still work his way up to them stung even more. "Shit!"

"It's alright, it's alright," Ernie spat out quickly. "Close the door, so we can nail it shut."

John was about to follow the mortician's order when he glanced down and watched Freddy first trip over the ladder, then quickly scamper to his feet and pick it up, somehow miraculously placing it right under the attic entrance. John pulled out his revolver and held his breath as he aimed. The mark was incredibly precise this time around and, even with Ernie and Tina screaming at him to hurry and close the door, John drown everything out and focused his sights. He fired one round and hit exactly where he wanted. Freddy screamed in agony as his index and middle fingers were blown off, bits of the exploded digits spraying in every direction. To John's delight, the man fell backwards onto the ground, but to his horror he pulled the ladder down with him, thwarting the gunslinger's plan of obtaining the structure once again. He had to let the cadaver set the ladder up again, get ahold of it and _then_ shoot the beast off. He only had one bullet left, so it needed to count. John focused his attention again, slipping his finger around the trigger, and waited for Freddy to first right himself, and then repeat himself.

Suddenly, a set of hands slapped John on the back and gripped at his clothing, forcefully yanking him back from the opening. The action was more than enough to startle him and, as the butt of his gun connected with the wooden paneling, momentarily halting its movement but not his, the trigger was pulled back and his one last bullet was discharged into the shoulder of the half-corpse still tied to the table from earlier. The thing moaned out in pain, momentarily disturbing its repeated call for brains.

John tumbled backward, his head unexpectedly buried in an old box of forgotten clothes. He sat up, throwing miscellaneous pieces of linen off of him, and looked directly at Ernie, who was sitting on the closed hatch door and hammering a nail into it.

"Who the hell do you think you are?!" John stood, half-hunched to avoid knocking his head, and made his way towards the man.

Ernie dropped his hammer, pulled out the Walther P38 from its holster and aimed it at John. "Don't make me waste a bullet on you, John. I like you, but I'm damned sure not gonna tussle with you in this place. Not when some punk is down there, trying to get up here to eat our brains!"

The gunslinger stopped, trying to determine it is was worth the effort to wrestle the gun from the mortician's shaking hand. He snorted out a breath of contempt when the man finished. "He wouldn't uh been able to get up here if you'd just let me be to do what I was doing. I was gonna grab the ladder and shoot him off again, pull it up here with us so we wouldn't have to do all this nonsense."

"Nails," Ernie said, still staring at John and pointing the pistol sight on him, "and hammer." He placed a handful of nails down on the door, next to the hammer and stared at John for a moment longer. "I'm gonna wedge that plank over there between the hatch and the ceiling. That should buy us more than enough time."

John didn't say a word. He merely grabbed his gun off the floor, placed it in his holster and got down on his knees near the pile of nails. As he hammered the first pin-shaped fastener into place, he could hear Freddy setting up the ladder again, and even talking this time.

"Tina!" he wailed. "Tina, where are you?"

The girl screamed in reply, cowering and covering her ears to try to block out the voice.

Less than a moment later there was a pounding on the door, and the nail John had just placed fell over and rolled away.

"You better hurry the hell up with that plank, mister." he mumbled, clearly still sour about what had transpired.

* * *

Spider picked up one of the metal trays and examined it for a moment, quickly placing it back down in disgust when he realized he had been handling a bedpan. He looked over his shoulder to Herbert, releasing a sigh of disinterest. "So what the hell are we doin' anyway? We should be downstairs."

Herbert stomped his way to the man, appearing rather annoyed. "We're looking for-" He stopped, peering over the supplies on the shelf in front of them. "Ah! Perfect!" He picked up a urine specimen cup and smiled.

His joyous expression struck Spider as eerie, even in the darkness of the room.

"Now, just help me hold down that body; I'll grab what I need and we'll join the others." Herbert continued to smile, grabbing a second cup and making his way back towards the basement door.

Just a few minutes before, Burt had taken matters into his own hands and smashed the head off of the zombie that was occupying his warehouse basement. There were only two phones in the building, and the one in his office had been ripped out of the wall earlier. The other was located in the basement, and Burt was determined to get on the phone with the police, especially after it was announced from a passing helicopter that those within the police blockade that wished to surrender should make their way to the perimeter at once. There was no way the troop were going to attempt to make it from the warehouse to some off the beaten path, middle of nowhere mystery location the loudmouth with the megaphone in the whirlybird had mentioned, especially on foot. Once they had gained access to the basement, Spider mentioned that the dead body on the floor was a 'friend that the Tarman got'. As Herbert stared at the deceased, the odd feeling returned to him, just as it had when he discovered Scuz's body, and then he thought of the police officers that had been ambushed from earlier. Somehow, one of them had crawled out from under the mass of living corpses that had piled on top of him and made a run for the woods, holding his neck, limping badly and drenched from head to toe after being briefly submerged in a large puddle of rainwater. He had seen that same officer sometime later, the shower-cap covering his police hat nearly as unmistakable as the caterpillar mustache across his face... only this time he was one of the walking dead, hungering for Herbert's brains as they made a dash for his abandoned police vehicle (ironically, the only thought occupying the doctor's head at the time was how the officer managed to keep his hat in all the commotion). He thought about the medical cadaver, split dogs and even the damn butterflies that had to be incinerated and how each and every one of those things did not suffer from something that Scuz, Suicide or the EMTs suffered. He quickly turned to Spider, practically begging the young man to accompany him back upstairs to retrieve something. Spider adamantly protested at first, not having any intentions of going back to where the decapitated zombie now resided unless there was a guarantee of help. Herbert was finally able to persuade him by stating that he was going to restrain the corpse upstairs for good, he just needed a helping set of hands.

A crash emanated to the duo from the back of the large room. Herbert jumped slightly, momentarily juggling one of the cups after it flew out of his hand.

"That fucker's up again!" Spider yelled, raising his sledgehammer and watching the headless body of the 'Tarman' creature wobble around, bumping into shelves and equipment with every discombobulated turn. The men cautiously approached the body, making sure to stay out of the reach of its flailing limbs.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Hit it!" the doctor ordered.

Spider stared at him sternly for a moment before tightening his grip on the weapon and waiting for the right opening. It came a second later as the figure turned its back to the young man; he swung, hard, and connected directly with its spine. There was an unsettling 'snap' sound, followed by that of a splatter as the cadaver fell to the floor in a heap. The black goop covering its bones smeared across the concrete floor and Herbert, covering his hands with a second set of latex gloves, knelt down and began to scoop the gunk into one of the empty urinal cups.

A look of shock and disgust overcame Spider. "What the fuck you doin'? You don't even know what that shit is!"

"It's flesh," Herbert replied nonchalantly, filling the container almost two-thirds full before screwing the cap back on.

"It's... what?!"

"Flesh," the doctor nodded, looking up at the younger man. "At first, I wasn't sure what it was, but a closer examination after Burt had knocked his head off and it stuck out like a sore thumb. You can still make out a good majority of non-putrefied organs if you look close enough... and know what you're looking at, of course."

"Why the fuck does it look like that, then?"

Herbert shrugged at this question, not having a surefire answer, but a fairly reasonable speculation. "A chemical reaction, I would imagine. The body was preserved inside of the canister, but that wouldn't stop it from continuing to deteriorate like a normal dead body. It was literally mummified in that barrel, and when the leak sprung and air was introduced to it, it should have collapsed into dust, but somehow it began to liquefy, like the Trioxin caused it to react altogether differently."

Spider began to ask another question when the body suddenly convulsed and the upper portion once again started to shift around, arms sliding across the floor and hands reaching for air. Both men moved back, Herbert falling on his back from his squatted position and crawling away with uncanny speed.

"You said we were gonna stop it!" Spider yelled. "How the hell we gonna do that?! Only way to kill 'em is to burn 'em!"

Herbert stood and dusted himself off, placing the filled cup in his medicine bag. "I never said we were going to _kill_ it... just stop it from getting to us." He pointed to the tall, barren shelving unit and motioned for Spider to follow him to it. "Just help me push it over on the thing," he grunted, expelling all of his minuscule force into toppling the metal structure.

Spider pushed on the other side, exerting far less force yet having a much greater affect, and the two watched the rack fall onto the half-liquefied body and pin it in place.

"Your friend downstairs was actually lucky, and Scum as well," Herbert blurted, winded from his efforts yet pleased with the results.

"It was 'Scuz', asshole!" Spider yelled, knuckles whitening as his grip on the sledgehammer handle increased tenfold. "And you better watch what the fuck you sayin'! They're dead, alright?! There ain't nothing lucky about that!"

Herbert bent over slightly and placed his hands on his knees, trying to overcome his sudden dizzy spell. "They're lucky because they're not- they're not going to come back like this thing, or those things outside... or Frank and Freddy."

"Yeah and how the fuck you know that, poindexter?"

"Because," he replied and smiled, happy to share his theory with someone, "they had a traumatic brain injury that lead to their death."

Confusion riddled Spider's face and it wasn't longer than a moment before Herbert further explained himself.

"Everyone who had their skull gnawed into and brains served up on a silver platter stayed dead, but those who were already dead, or died sometime after being exposed to that chemical, came back. Think about it. Frank, Freddy, that police officer; they were all exposed and they all came back. Scuz, your other friend downstairs, the police officer's partner? All died from brain trauma, none came back."

Spider stared at the doctor for a moment, trying to comprehend what he had been told, and look for a flaw in the logic as well. As Herbert straightened his posture, the punk thought of something else entirely.

"Oh shit, man! We all got drenched in that rain! You and John, too! Does that mean we're gonna die? Are- are we gonna turn out like Freddy?"

There was a distinct tone of panic in the young man's voice, but again Herbert replied in a calm manner, already having thought of such a scenario and reasoning out the probability of it.

The doctor shook his head. "No, not likely."

Even though he was being helpful in alleviating his concerns, Spider couldn't help but become irritated with the smug, smart elitism that Herbert displayed with each response.

"From what they told me, both Frank and Freddy passed out when the canister leaked and they felt deathly ill-" He paused, as it for dramatic effect, and threw a quick glance to Spider. "...after they woke up. While they probably died while they were unconscious on the basement floor, you also have to remember that they had a very high, concentrated dose of that chemical. It hit them right in the face. By comparison, we all had very minute doses, diluted by the rain, and our skin likely absorbed very little of it."

Spider rolled his eyes at the length to which the man could talk. _Come on, man. I just asked a simple damn question! I'll be dead in my grave by the time you answ-_

"Aw, fuck!" Spider raised a hand to his forehead in frustration. It felt like the more he knew, the more he thought of, and the more he thought of, the more he needed new answers. It was turning into a mundane cycle that he was not too find of. "What about those things that came outta the ground-"

"In the cemetery?" Herbert finished for him, already displaying that he had given that thought as well. "It all has to do with the brain, Spider, it really does. Whatever the chemical does to revive the dead, it does so by basically hijacking the brain and hot-wiring itself through the nervous system after that, basically infecting every part of the body after it has reactivated the master control- the brain. Our gray matter is still alive and functioning, actively resisting any impulse the Trioxin may have. But, what may happen after we pass away? Well... there's only one way to test that out."

The light pouring in from the open basement door immersed both men, and the smile Herbert wore simply gleamed. In the span of just a few minutes, the doctor had displayed delighted expressions that had given his younger confidant the willies both times he had caught sight of them.

Spider was at a loss. Half of what Herbert had said simply flew over his head, and the other half just didn't make a whole lot of sense to him. The Tarman body shifted under the metal shelving again and, again, both men jumped, breaking them out of the awkwardness that Herbert's last words had clouded the room with.

"Look, fuck this. Let's get back downstairs," Spider remarked. "Maybe they got some help on the phone or something."

As the duo descended the steps to the basement, a counter point to Herbert's brain theory finally struck Spider.

"The dogs! What about the split dogs?" he asked, his tone becoming somewhat infected with the doctor's morbid enthusiasm and delivering the question in a far more lively timbre than he regularly would have. "They were cut in two, man, brain and all. How the hell could they come back if what you said is true."

The doctor smirked, shaking his head and taking the last few stairs with an odd pep to his step. "Were you listening to anything I said? Death via brain injury! Those dogs were either killed long before they were cut in half or they passed of natural causes before becoming specimens. Either way, their brains were not damaged before they died, and I believe that is the link between death and reanimation with this goldmine we have in our hands!"

"Goldmine?" Spider stopped and scrunched up his face, feeling more lost than ever. "What the fuck you goin' on about a 'goldmine' for? You see what this shit does."

"Oh yes. Yes, I have."

Another voice interrupted the two, breaking their communication before Herbert could do anything that Spider was sure would give him the heebie-jeebies for a third time.

"Where the hell have you guys been?" Casey asked, her voice slightly squeaking in the process.

"Ol' weird-ass doctor Frankenstein here had me help him upstairs, makin' sure that thing's body wouldn't stop us from gettin' outta here if we need to. Any luck with the cops?"

Casey's slight grin dropped at the mention of the police, and Chuck piped up to answer for her.

"They got the cops, Spider; those things got the cops and they're breaking out of the barricade."

Spider released a sigh of despair, shaking his head and looking to the floor.

"But we got through to the army or something. Called the number stenciled on the side of the tank. Burt talked to a Captain and a Colonel."

Herbert scoffed, quite audibly. "The army? Are you insane?"

"Hey!" Burt shouted, phone still held lazily in his hand as he waited to be transferred to yet another department. "They said they've been waiting for this to happen and they have some sort of contingency plan to deal with it."

"What the hell is this 'plan'?" Spider remarked, clearly just as skeptical and distrusting of the armed forces as Herbert.

"If you think there just going to come in here and save us you're wrong," Herbert added. "Dead wrong. If anything they'll probably kill us. Come in with their machine guns and riddle us with holes. Or, better yet, they could just drop a bomb on us. Yeah. Knock out a few city blocks and boom... suddenly no more problem." The doctor had worked himself up in his little spiel. By the time he finished he was breathing heavily and small beads of sweat were forming on his head.

"Would you shut up, man? You're freaking everyone out." While Spider agreed that the army was not the greatest hope, he could see how Herbert's words were scaring his friends, Casey in particular.

Before Herbert could reply, his medicine bag began to emit a white, pulsing glow. The mask inside had activated, once again preparing to turn Herbert's world upside down and inside out.

"What the fuck?!" Spider shouted, taking a step back from the doctor.

"Holy shit!" Casey screamed. "What's tha-"

But Herbert couldn't hear her anymore... he couldn't see her anymore. The light had taken him.

* * *

"Tina, it was wrong of you to lock me up," Freddy's voice seeped through the floorboards, his tone sounding almost rational. "I had to hurt myself to get out. But I forgive you, darling."

Tina squeaked out sobs between her flow of tears at the words, not at all being able to help it. She was horribly scared for her life and still miserably heartbroken at the loss of her boyfriend, and his return as something else.

"And I know you're here, because I can smell your braaaaains!" He began smashing at the hatchway again.

"Oh God!" Tina screamed in a state halfway between delirium and hysteria, barely able to contain a gag at the mere thought of what Freddy had said. "Go away!"

His pounding intensified, and some of the boards in the covering began to crack under the continued pressure. There was a sickening crunch sound a moment later. Whatever it was, it sounded wet.

"See?" Freddy moaned through the unsettling silence. "And now you've made me hurt myself again! You made me break my hand completely off this time, Tiiiiiina! But I don't care, darling, because I love you."

John heard the girl cry out in a sorrowful pain behind him and his heart sank for her.

"And you've got to let meeee eeeeat your braaaaains!"

The pounding commenced again, the two-by-four plank now bowing in the middle from the continued abuse. John sat near the opening, propped up on his knees, Bowie knife drawn and ready to stab, repeatedly. He had almost bit the dust at the hands of this punk once before, he wasn't going down without an honest to goodness fight this time. Unexpectedly, a white light began to pulse from the gunslinger's very own core, starting at his stomach and growing rapidly.

_What? No!_ he thought, frantic. _Not the time for this bullshit!_

John turned his head back, trying to read the situation behind him before it was too late. In many respects, he wished he never had. Both Ernie and Tina were frozen, not just in fear of the undead Freddy below them, but John could clearly see that they could see he was literally glowing. Unfortunately, he also saw that Ernie had an exit plan for Tina; the barrel of the Walther P38 held less than an inch away from her temple.

It was Ernie's last-ditch effort at making sure she went out peacefully if the monster downstairs broke the barricade.

"Nooooooooooooo!" John screamed as he reached out for the two, dread and anguish filling every part of his being. He couldn't let the girl go out like that, not when she had been his beacon in these last few hours... not after she had saved his life in the chapel. Her flame was too strong to be put out by anything other than a gale... and a bullet would be a disgrace.

Before he could make contact, however, John's world became blanketed in white.

* * *

The light faded away and Herbert examined his new surroundings, still surprised that he had yet again been transported somehow. He was in an alley of some sort. A faded brick wall lined one side of him and what appeared to be the back entrance of a story or restaurant was behind him. A quick glance to his right revealed John, sitting on his knees with his head bowed and hands draped across his knees... one of them still clutching his Bowie knife.

"Goddammit!" the cowboy roared. "I coulda saved her. Hell, I coulda saved him. He didn't have to-"

A familiar voice interrupted the man, lacing the words it spoke with an equally familiar vulgarity.

"What the fuck just happened? Where are we?"

Both men turned to look behind them, varied expressions of shock spread across their mugs.

Spider didn't appear scared as much as dazed to the men. He was slowly looking all around, drinking the environment in, and nervously wringing his hands around the sledgehammer's handle as he held the weapon tight to his chest. The fact that he was outside was making him freeze up more than anything. They shouldn't be out... those things were outside. When he made eye contact with the men again, he seemed to look passed them and his eyes widened nearly to the point of bugging out of his head. He loosened his vice-grip on the sledgehammer to point, rather shakily, at something far beyond where they were. "Guys, what the fuck is that?!"

John and Herbert turned again, to see what their newest addition was pointing at and what met their vision put them in the same state of mind as Spider.

A man was coming down the alley towards them, and from the looks of it, he had been dead for a long time. His skin was a light, putrid brown color, marred with holes from both decomposition and various insect feasts. His lips, nose and eyes were all gone, but that didn't stop his empty sockets from zeroing in on the men, nor his mouth from twisting upward into a pseudo smile that shown his rotten teeth like they were prized gems.

With fire ax in hand, the creature lurched forward, closing the gap with each substantial step and leaving the men with little time to decide if they would go in fighting or out in pieces...


	12. Creepy-crawlies (Night of the Creeps)

John stepped forward without a word, holding out his gun and aiming the sights directly at the middle of the approaching creature's forehead.

There was a hollow 'click' sound as he pulled the trigger of his emptied revolver.

"Shit!" he yelled in surprise, completely having forgotten that he had spent the last of his ammunition trying to down a rampaging Freddy back at the funeral home.

Spider grabbed his coat, pulling him back a little. "I got this, man, I got this."

He had just faced an endless army of the undead and still came out kickin'; Spider was fairly confident that he could bash in the head of one walking stiff and then they could all figure out what the hell was going on.

The rotted corpse was almost on them now, forcing John and Herbert to back themselves into the corner where the faded-brick building was literally cemented to the white-painted cinder block wall of an adjacent shop. In an almost paternal fashion, Spider waved his hand behind him, as if warning the already trapped duo to stay back. As he did so, the walking cadaver swung the fire ax in its tight grasp and connected with Spider's sledgehammer, hitting the weapon at the neck of the handle and chopping the hammer off entirely. Spider fumbled forward slightly, the force of the fire ax first catching the sledgehammer's wooden stock had pulled him towards the thing before the blade of the ax tore through the wood entirely. Spider's eyes grew wide in disbelief as he watched the head of the sledgehammer fall to the ground and collide with the concrete with a dull thud. The decayed body lifted the ax again and brought it down with alarming speed. It was as if time slowed for the young punk and he could see the blade the the ax falling closer and closer to his face; its menacing blade catching back alley lights and throwing glints of illumination every which was as the bloodied weapon continued to travel.

 _I'm dead. One fuckin' try at being a hero and now I'm fuckin' dead!_ he thought, frantically.

The very edge of the ax barely caught his right cheek, leaving a one-inch long cut that immediately began to bleed, as the man was violently pulled back to safety by John. If his timing had been a second later, Spider would've had the ax buried in his head.

"Fuck!" Spider shrieked in both fear and exhilaration, a polar opposite mix he never knew anyone could experience until that very moment. He rose a hand to his face to check the damage and was slightly relieved that that amount of blood shown on his palm was minimal and not at all indicating a gusher of a wound. His hands were instantly shaking, but he looked at the long wooden handle still in his grip; the neck of the stock splintered and broken where the head of the sledgehammer used to be.

As the creature took another sluggish step forward, appearing to prepare itself for yet another ax attack, Spider threw the useless stock at the approaching corpse, hitting it in the chest and causing the thing to fall back and almost over onto its back.

All three men stood in a huddled silence as a familiar structure turned the corner at the far end of the alley. If the flashing red and blue lights weren't sufficient to cue them in on what it was, the growing wail of the siren was more than enough to. For the second time in recent memory, Spider was actually glad to see the fast-approaching authority figures. They weren't going to be outnumbered this time, and they at least had guns to take this thing out.

The car came to a screeching, jolting halt and the two officers within scurried out with their weapons drawn. Not a word was said; no 'stop!', 'hands up!' or any other expected demand, and other troopers began to flood the small alley from all directions.

Finally, an older man in a tan trench coat yelled out the stereotypical cop catchphrase, 'Freeze!', as he quickly pulled on the fore-end of his Remington 870 shotgun and cocked it. Even more than the 'click-clack' of the gun, his booming order drew attention as it bounced off the concrete walls and echoed, causing the corpse to completely stall in its movement. Tension grew around Spider, John and Herbert as they all watched different things to try to decide what to do. They were between a rock, a hard place... and maybe an even harder one. They couldn't retreat any further thanks to the walls at their backs, and they couldn't go forward because of the ax-wielding thing in front of them, but if they stayed exactly where they were, they may be in the cross-hairs of the five officers who were all aiming their weapons at the undead maniac.

As the other two were focusing their attention elsewhere, John on the walking corpse that had stopped in front of them and Spider was very cautiously shifting his sights between the four uniformed police officers that were all aiming their handguns in his general direction, Herbert followed the slow moving cop in the trench coat as he neared his four comrades. He then said something that caught the doctor's attention fully. It was only just above a whisper, but Herbert still hear him clearly.

"I already killed you. You son of a bitch, I already killed you."

It was obvious that the man was referring to the walking, dead thing with the ax, as it seemed that Herbert and his crew were all but invisible to the lawmen. And, perhaps, the corpse knew this as well, because it suddenly turned around to face the police officers, its weapon still held firmly in its hands.

Spider's eyes widened as his street-smart intuition kicked in. He had seen a few of his close, albeit stupid, friends do something similar to cops back in California, just before he moved to Louisville, and he knew what the outcome would be.

"Move!" he shouted, reaching over to push John to the right and pulling Herbert as far left as he could in a split-second. The four uniformed officers all opened fire on the fixed cadaver and blew multiple holes into its chest and abdomen. Each and every shot went right though the thing, penetrating into the walls behind it as their speed barely slowed. The holes left in the stiff were illuminated by the bright headlights of the cruiser parked about twenty feet in front of it, and the sight would have been grotesquely comical if not for the fact that the situation itself was overwhelmingly horrifying. Had Spider held out for a moment longer, all of them might have been dead, but his quick actions saved them from the barrage of oncoming slugs.

Still the creature stood, leaving all five of the law officers in disbelief of what they were witnessing. The man with the shotgun made a face that read he had just seen a ghost, causing him to become almost as white as the grey hair that was slowly consuming his natural color with age. He managed to regain his composure fairly quickly, dropping the look and tugging the shotgun up so the sight was at eye-level for him. Snugging the butt of the gun firmly against his shoulder, the man took a moment to weld his cheek to the stock and perfect his aim before he pulled back on the trigger. The action looked effortless and well-practiced for the gun-weilder.

The corpse's head exploded within an instant, throwing chunks of leathery flesh, bone fragments and decayed brain matter everywhere. The shattered cranium also released something else from within it. Something much more terrifying than the bits of bone and brain that had splattered all over Herbert and Spider.

Things that looked like overgrown slugs flowed out of the open cavity atop the corpse's neck and showered down across the concrete below, scurrying away into the darkness of the night with alarming speed almost as soon as they hit the ground. Everyone watched, unsure of what to do or what the things were, and it took the hollow 'thump' of the lifeless, headless body to reel everyone back into the now.

"That... was some bullshit," Spider lamented in a low voice as he wiped bits and pieces of organic matter from his shirt and bare arms.

"That was interesting," Herbert countered, removing his eyeglasses to once again clean them.

"You know ya'll almost fuckin' killed us too, right?! Motha-fuckas..." Spider defiantly yelled in protest, showing his undeniable disdain for authority figures instead of any kind of appreciation for being saved.

The four uniformed officers still had their guns drawn and aimed, but instead of training their sights at the corpse, they were now locked on the three men who were pinned against the walls.

"What the hell are you doin'?" John questioned, his voice a mixture of genuine curiosity and hinted anger. "You all already spent your bullets. I counted. Each of you put six rounds into that thing before it keeled over." John Marston may not have been a rocket scientist or even had the ability to make it passed first grade math, but his time as an outlaw on the run from the law taught him that every shot mattered, and you needed to count not just your own bullets, but those of your enemies as well. While he wasn't sure if the men (and single woman) in front of him were actually his enemy, counting their fired bullets was something he did simply by force of habit.

"We're not all out," the grey-haired man in the tan trench-coat announced, cocking his shotgun again. "Got one in the chamber and three more in the mag. Now..." He slowly raised the shotgun to a firing position again and made his way towards the men. "You mind telling me just what the hell you were doing back here with that thing?"


	13. Cornered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight change-up to one of the officers in this chapter from what was presented in the movie. They are a trivial character anyway and I wanted to make it so I could have a bit of fun with them and one of our heroes. I hope you enjoy the slight deviation (well, there's a lot of deviation all throughout, but you get my point).

All three men raised their arms up in surrender as the older police officer advanced with his loaded weapon.

"Whoa, whoa, partner. No need to be hostile," John hastily spat out, trying not to sound as unnerved by all of this as he actually was.

Spider spoke up as well, a look of defiance spread across his face as he talked; his disdain for authority figures was making a record-breaking comeback. "And we weren't with that thing at all. Damn corpse was tryin' to kill us before you guys showed up."

Herbert simply kept his mouth shut and shifted slightly so he was more behind Spider than next to him. He doubted the young man would provide much cover from the explosion that would shoot out of the barrel in front of them, but it was better than nothing.

"Christ," the officer breathed in a quiet tone, sounding irritated and even going as far as rolling his eyes slightly. His shoulders relaxed and he lowered his shotgun to a less hostile position. "It'd be just my luck to run into Butch, Buckwheat and Froggy tonight," he said, peering at John, Spider and Herbert individually as he read off each appointed nickname.

"No," John said, sounding completely earnest as he shook his head, "this here's Spider and Dr. West, not Buckwheat and Froggy, and I'm no Butch Cassidy, believe me. I think you might have us confused with some other group uh people, mister."

"Oh good," the officer replied with a slight chuckle. "Bright as a sack of hammers, this one. Spanky and Alfalfa were already taken by a couple other clowns, but I might have been a little quick to hand out the prized names."

"He didn't mean Butch Cassidy, John," Spider informed his friend, maintaining eye contact with the older man, "and we sure as shit ain't the Little Rascals, man. And Buckwheat? Really? What kinda racist shit is that? If you really needa go with a black character, least you coulda done was call me Stymie."

"Detective Cameron, sir, what do you want us to do with them? I mean, we-" another officer interrupted from behind the detective, appearing slightly apprehensive about his approach. Before he could even finish, the higher ranking detective raised a hand to silence him and then spoke to the man without even looking back at him.

"What I want you to do, rookie, is call this in and get this shit cleaned up before midnight while I continue to talk with our new friends here." His voice was stern and direct, but not overtly raised. Still, his words carried a weight about them that demanded both attention and compliance. Detective Cameron surveyed Spider up and down as he spoke, and the questioning police officer scampered away as soon as his orders were barked to him. "And you," he locked eyes with the young man who had been at odds with him since the second he opened his mouth, "you couldn't even be a poor man's Stymie dressed like that, so you get to stay a Buckwheat."

John looked genuinely confused and struggling to understand the strange back and forth that Spider and the detective were having, and his face twisted into a canvas of bewilderment as he fought to even think of something to say.

Cameron looked at the other two as well, and a slight look of amusement momentarily graced his face. "Don't like the nicknames or something, boys?"

No one replied. John and Herbert shared puzzled looks with one another while Spider merely stared at the detective with a look that would have been lethal if it could kill.

"Fine, what are you then?" Cameron conceded. "The three Musketeers? Caballeros? Stooges? Come on, help me out here. I mean, it's almost October, but still... a little early for Halloween, isn't it fellas?"

"Look, mister," Spider began trying his best to ignore the detective's snide (and fairly untimely) sense of humor and actually achieve something, "we don't know where we're at or how we even got here! Last thing I remember we were stuck in some warehouse, on the phone with the army and then some white light blasted outta nowhere and now we're here! We gotta find that warehouse, man! We gotta save our friends. They're stuck there and there a ton of zombies like the one you just took care of trying to eat their brains!"

John and Herbert both grimaced at Spider's words, as they both knew that they were no longer where they were before. The fact that the detective had even mentioned that they weren't even in the same month didn't seem to seep into the young man's mind. The kind of talk their third companion had just spouted out would sound insane to any reasonable person, and would garner the appropriate look of suspicion to accompany it... much like the look Detective Cameron was giving the trio now.

"Drugs..." Cameron breathed as if it was the answer he had been looking for for a while now. "You all came back here do some drugs, heroin or something, and you got cornered by that thing, didn't you?"

"Drugs?!" Spider yelled, appalled at the accusation. "Nobody's doin' any drugs back here, man! We got people who need us!"

"Oh, is that so? Well, just let me see what's in the bag that Froggy is holding there any maybe we'll try to go find your friends."

Herbert clutched his medical bag close to his chest, overlapping his arms to lock his treasured possessions tight to his body. He couldn't just give up the bag. His life's research was in there, the last of his serums were in there, the key to discovering how the 2-4-5 Trioxin worked was in there. Most importantly, the Jade Veil was in there, and without it Herbert had now idea how he would get home. "No!"

"It wasn't a request," the detective said coldly and reached towards the doctor.

John stepped forward, fully intent on stopping the police officer, but before he took more than one step, the barrel of Cameron's twelve-gauge was pushed snug up against his abdomen. The steel was still hot against his flesh; the heat pushing through the thin barrier of his clothing in mere moments. The sensation was more than enough to make John realize the man meant business.

"The bag! Now, Froggy!"

Herbert again began to protest, merely shaking his head this time, but Cameron reached forward and yanked the medical bag from his grip with little effort.

"Hands up! All three of ya!" the female police officer shouted. She wasn't even looking at the direction of the trio when she shouted her demand, but instead loading the last round into the cylinder and quickly locking it into place with the palm of her hand before wrapping it over her other and cocking the hammer.

Spider and Herbert threw their hands up immediately, but John remained motionless. While he was willing to comply with the demand made of him, he was not going to make any quick moves while the barrel of a shotgun was still planted firmly in his stomach.

The detective lowered his weapon and motioned with it, signaling John to step back and comply, which he did.

"Appreciate the backup, Officer Palmer, but maybe next time you can start shouting orders _after_ you have your revolver loaded and ready to fire. It's a little more intimidating that way."

The officer didn't reply, but kept her stare trained on the three men as the all wore a look of concern that centered on the medicine bag.

"By the way, think you can do us all a favor and relieve the cowboy of his six-shooter there? It's in a holster around his belt. Caught a glimpse of it when he put his arms up."

Very warily, the female officer approached John, reaching into his coat just slightly while keeping her service pistol aimed at his chest. She pulled out the cattleman revolver a moment later, holding it with her thumb and forefinger as if the thing was covered in diseases. Once she made her way closer, Spider got his first real good look at her. She was young, much younger than he expected any female officer to be, and it appeared as if she was perhaps biracial to him. Her light-brown skin-tone could have been a variety of different ethnicities or races, but her tightly curled black locks and full-lips made him believe there was some black in her. Even in all this chaos, he liked what he saw... but Spider was a man whose life was usually dictated by his crotch.

"Ah, Jesus!" Cameron sighed loudly. "Hold the damn thing properly before you drop it and blow a hole in your foot!"

Reluctantly, the officer grasped the handle with more force, backing up a few steps until she was met by one of her fellow policemen who had an open plastic evidence bag just waiting for the gun to be dropped in it.

"So, let's see what goodies we've got here," Cameron said in his usual charismatic tone (the kind the rest of the police force usually compared to that of a roadkill animal: flat and dead).

"Careful!" John suddenly yelled out, garnering the half-concerned, half-agitated looking face of Detective Cameron. "There's a , uh... mask in there..."

The doctor caught on to what his associate was implying almost immediately... or rather, what he was trying to avoid. "It has sharp edges!" Herbert quickly added. "Wouldn't want you to cut yourself." He accompanied his words with a smile, but the gesture looked forced and downright creepy on the man.

"Uh huh," Detective Cameron uttered with an air of superiority about him, already having sat the bag down and opening it on bended knee. "You know, I can smell bad intentions from a mile away," he announced in a ho hum manner, "and this bag reeks of it." After taking a peek at the contents in the bag, he released a small laugh and his mood took a sudden turn towards the sardonic, deadpan state that he was almost always comfortably in. "I dunno, maybe it's the black tar heroin in the piss cup..." He held up the specimen cup with the blackened, rotten flesh of the undead from the 2-4-5 Trioxin canister and examined it for a moment before placing it on the ground and reaching into the bag again. "Or maybe it's the needles..." he continued on, pulling out a handful of syringes and dropping them onto the asphalt next to the urine container. "Maybe it's even... these, um," He held up two clear, rectangular bottles with glowing green liquid in them, one visibly more vibrant than the other. He looked between the containers for a minute before focusing his expectant gaze at Herbert. "Mind telling me just what the hell these are, Froggy? I've been on the force for years, and I never seen shit like this before."

The doctor was about to reply... or stumble his way through an answer at the very least, as he couldn't think of any way of explaining what his reagent was without sounding like a nutcase (the only logical answer that popped into his mind was to say the concoction was liquid neon), when Spider stopped him.

"Don't bother answerin'," the punk suggested scornfully, hands still raised far above his head. "He ain't gonna believe shit you say anyway, unless it's what he _wants_ to hear."

Detective Cameron looked at the men for another moment, his face expressionless, but his eyes were almost demanding answers. He finally let out a sigh and shook his head. "Alright, that's fine. We're gonna test all this anyway so we will find out what it is one way or another." He began digging in the bag again as another officer began to document the items removed.

There were various other small pieces of medical equipment, including a box of band-aids, and a collection of hand-written annotations with a black notebook nestled into the middle of them. With every item removed, the detective would quickly peer back up at the three detained men just to see if he could read anything on their faces, and he honed in on the look of shock on Herbert's face when the papers were pulled out.

"So what are these?" Detective Cameron asked, boring a hole directly into the doctor with his hard gaze. "Notes on how to make your own drugs? A nice, little client list?"

Spider looked over at Herbert, who was clearly about to babble something to the officer. "Don't say a word, man. Not a gotdamn word! That could be a cure for cancer and he wouldn't give a shit."

The doctor heeded the advice of the youth, but beads of sweat were forming on his forehead at just the thought of his notes disappearing forever.

Sighing and pulling a cigarette from the inner-pocket of his jacket, the detective lit it and looked back at the notes for a moment. "Looks like I have a little late night reading to do then. Here's hoping it isn't too boring and I end up falling asleep with this cigarette in my hand, burnin' them all up to a bitty pile of ash."

The imagery created at the officer's words flared in Herbert's mind. There wasn't a fear of losing his master formula, the equation for creating that was cemented in his mind and nothing was going to take it away... but what of his tested and untested alterations? He certainly couldn't remember all of them, not to mention the records of re-animation attempts, both failed and successful. All of it would just go up in smoke... every bit of information he had was within those pages just lost. The anxiety that built up within him poured out before he could contain himself. "No!" he blurted out in a panic.

"Ahhh," the detective breathed as he stood up and stared at the three. As he slowly advanced toward them, holding the bundle of rubber-banded papers and taping them against the palm of his other hand, he continued, "So, this is what get's your goat, huh Froggy? A little book full of scribbles? Must be pretty important."

"More than you can imagine," Herbert replied, refusing to say anything else and scrunching his face into the best show of defiance he could muster.

"Look, it's getting late and I'm tired of messing around here, boys. I'm already gonna have a mountain of paperwork with this mess, so why don't you all make it just a little easier on me and show me some ID, huh?"

"Ain't got none," Spider replied immediately without hesitation. "Left it in my other tux."

The detective smiled, the lit cigarette between his lips lifting slightly with the activity. "Cute, kid. Real cute. Let me guess: the same goes for you, Froggy?"

Herbert stayed silent, continuing his hard, cold stare at the man.

"And, uh, how about you Butch?"

John simply shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. "What the hell is an 'ID', mister?"

The cowboy's response caused Herbert to grin, and he couldn't help but respond in an attempt to further irritate the detective. "You'll have to excuse John. From what he tells me, he's an honest-to-goodness gunslinger from 1911 and, if my memories from history classes serve me correctly, those kinds of things weren't exactly popular back then."

Detective Cameron stood silent for a moment, soaking in the smug look of satisfaction that Herbert was now wearing. "You guys all seem like a buncha whackjobs to me. Wackjobs on drugs. Palmer, Teague, take Butch and Buckwheat here and move 'em to the station. Froggy's coming with me. Maybe I'll be able to get a little more out of him without the influence of his friends to keep him quiet."

"Don't say anything, Herbert, and don't put up any kind of fight 'less you want a knock on your damn head from one of these pigs," Spider protested as he was pulled to the side by officer Palmer, a woman who was at least six inches shorter than her detainee. "Present company excluded, baby," he added when he realized who was going to be cuffing him.

"You better believe I'll give you a knock if you call me 'baby' again," Officer Palmer said from behind, tightening one of the cuffs as she did so.

Cameron grabbed Herbert by the shoulder, pulling him forward and forcefully turning him around, pulling his arms behind him and applying a pair of handcuffs to his wrist. As the doctor was being restrained, he watched the same treatment befall his traveling companions.

"Man, this is some bullshit," Spider bemoaned, Palmer applying the last cuff from behind the young man. "What the hell you even arrestin' us for anyway? You gotta have a reason, ya know?"

"We do," Cameron stated, almost seeming to spit the words out in contempt, his cigarette held tight between his teeth. "It's called 'probable cause,' and you may want to look it up sometime. That shit in the bag? Probable cause. You creeps hanging out back here with a corpse? Probable cause. Obstruction? You can bet your ass that's probable cause."

Spider narrowed his eyes towards the assertive officer while John merely released a sigh and shook his head.

"Detective Cameron, sir, there's still a weird mask in this bag. You want me to bag it up for evidence?" another officer called out, kneeling near Herbert's medicine bag.

Cameron shook his head and irritably blew out a puff of smoke, the last tendrils lazily drifting up his lip and through his thick mustache. "Not yet, Officer Dante, but thanks. I want to see what my friend here can tell me about these damn notes and that mask they were all so worried about... as well as all the other shit in that bag. Here, put this in there would ya?" He threw the collection of papers to the officer and pulled Herbert's other arm back with his now-free hand, fully restraining the man. "As a matter of fact- everyone load a different guy in your car. Maybe they'll talk cause they don't know if the others will rat 'em out."

As the officers nodded in agreement, Spider yelled out one more obscenity before Cameron grinned again.

"Alright, load 'em up and meet at the station," the detective ordered, pulling Herbert along by the bend in his elbow. He took the medicine bag from Officer Schaefer as he passed by him, warning Herbert that they had a bit of a stroll ahead of them to make it back to his car.


	14. The long and short of Ivan Wroth

The back of Detective Cameron's 1950 Ford Custom Fordor Sedan was slightly cluttered with just about everything: papers, discarded food containers, empty packs of smokes, and now Herbert West.

The drive was quiet, with Cameron not uttering another word to the doctor from the time they left the crime scene, and it was the quiet that was disturbing Herbert the most. The man had questions, that was his reason for isolating him, and yet he was not asking anything, not saying anything... and it was completely throwing the good doctor.

"Where are we going?" Herbert finally inquired, breaking the eerie silence.

There was more calm from the detective, but he eventually cleared his throat and answered, "Crestridge Police Department, genius."

He didn't turn around, he didn't shoot him any kind of glance in the rear-view mirror... he just answered, cold and flat. Only more silence followed after the detective's answer. Herbert was no good with small talk. Honestly, he was no good with talk in general, usually waiting on other people to take the lead and just following along if he needed to. This was the first time he could recall that he needed info but had no idea how to get it without giving the officer what he wanted.

"Crestridge? We're in Crestridge? Um, where is that?"

No answer.

Frustrated, Herbert dug through his mind in desperation, seeking out any nugget of conversation he could. On the spur of the moment, he remembered the incident that occurred in the back alley and, more specifically, what he overheard Detective Cameron say. A thin smile spread across his lips as he prepared himself to try to stimulate a conversation once more. "So, do the dead come back to life in your little town often?"

His question, at least, caused Cameron to look into the rear-view mirror at him, eyes slightly wider than normal, but no other tell-tale signs of surprise written on his face.

"You knew that rotted fellow back there didn't you, detective?" the doctor asked, already aware of the answer. He was not met with a response or a glance this time, but it felt like the Ford had picked up speed.

If any random person who observed Herbert and his odd inclination to stir the pot had asked him why he did so, he would not be able to provide them with an answer. At least not a straightforward one. There were men whose every action made logical sense, and then there were those who just wanted to poke the bear for the hell of it. Herbert, more often that not, fell into the latter category when it came to antagonization. He didn't always know why he did it or even how far was too far (until it was too late), but there was something about him, something in him, that drove him to push others again and again... just as he was about to do with his next sentence. This time, however, he had a plan for his brash actions.

"I heard you back in the alley, detective. Just before you blew that thing's head off, you confessed. You confessed to having already killed it once before."

This time Herbert felt the Fordor stop suddenly, violently. If he had viewed the vehicle from an outsider's perspective, he would have seen the three-foot long skid-marks of rubber the screeching tires left as the vehicle halted its movement. While the doctor had anticipated some sort of response from his remark, especially judging from what he received earlier, his prediction wasn't enough to stop him from flying forward and firmly planting his left shoulder into the back of the driver's seat. He released an audibly groan of discomfort as the area immediately began to throb. It was the same shoulder that had been hit earlier when he was making a mad dash for the police car with Spider and Bert and, while the pain had dissipated to nothing thereafter, it hadn't felt quite right since.

"You done being tough, smart guy, or am I gonna have to come back there and beat some sense into you?"

Even if he was in a whole new world of hurt thanks to his prodding, Herbert knew he couldn't just cower away like he wanted to; he needed to keep hold of the man's attention if he wanted to get himself out of this situation. Before he could start to talk again, however, his shoulder popped when he sat back in his seat, sending a shock through his entire system that inhibited him.

"You know what, Froggy? Since you're so talkative all of the sudden, why don't you start telling me about these?" He reached to his right, not at all caring that he was still stopped in the middle of the block, far removed from any stop lights or signs, and pulled up the collection of notes. "Or..." he threw the papers down into the passenger seat, digging his hand into the medical bag. "How about this nasty little mask you and your friends were so scared of me touching? You know, the green one with the eye right in the middle of the forehead?" He lifted up the mask and held it so Herbert couldn't miss the thing, leering into the backseat as he did so.

Herbert's sights sharpened in annoyance, the simple act before him screaming 'defiance!' in his head. "Don't touch th-" he nearly demanded, but a loud cry from the detective cut him short and signaled that he was too late in his warning.

"Damn it!" Cameron yelled a second after sucking in a stinging breath. His hand jolted at the same time, causing the mask to falter in, but not fall out of, his grip. He plopped the veil back into the bag and brought his hand closer to his face for examination. There was a long cut that ran from the top of his pinky to the bottom of it, blood already starting to soak through the sliver of open skin. Instinctively, the detective rose his pinky to his mouth and momentarily soothed the laceration with a slight suction.

Herbert simply stared at the man in continued disbelief for a moment, trying to instantly wrap his brain around the fact that he was very likely stuck with this bullying, arrogant cop for god knew how long. No, not just him; John and Spider, too. _All_ of them.

The outcome was so horrible to the doctor that it became comical. A true comedy of errors in this living nightmare. He began to laugh after a moment of silence where the detective merely stared at his finger. The chuckle soon turned into a cackle, one that heaved Herbert's chest up and down with every sound, eyes nearly closed in some mad euphoria that made a wide, open-mouth grin spread across his face. For Cameron, the scene was unquestionably eerily. Eerie and genuine on his detainee.

Herbert never found humor in the things most others did, nor did the man have particularly good timing with his outbursts of amusement. People would laugh at a comedy movie or a stand-up comedian's routine, Herbert wouldn't. He didn't find anything to laugh about in those things. People didn't find humor in the misfortune of others, but Herbert often did. A broken, bloodied nose from a fall would garner chuckles at the unfortunate recipient from the doctor, as would any prank that would induce immediate, rampant fear, such as the time Herbert had 'joked' that Dan's re-animated cat, Rufus, was about to attack his associate again after they had just spent over two terrifying minutes trying to kill the thing, and ultimately succeeding.

"We- we warned you," Herbert ridiculed, his words filled with laughter that neither man really understood. "Now you're stuck with us."

Cameron let out a contentious laugh of his own. "'Stuck with you' my ass. Dropping you off at the station and calling it a night. Screw the paperwork, the rookie can handle it." He shifted the car into drive, but Herbert's next words made his foot feel like it was made of lead and he couldn't lift it off the brake.

"You'll be seeing more of the walking dead, detective, that's for sure. My whole night has been filled with them. The university, the funeral home, the warehouse... here. We're as damned as they are."

As images of an obviously-dead, badly decomposed, ax-wielding body of Ivan Wroth flashed in detective Ray Cameron's mind, Herbert's words played over them like the opening dialogue of some bad B-movie. Ray had a history with that corpse, one that he was sure had ended twenty-seven years ago when he killed the serial murderer in cold blood.

Ivan Wroth was a thirty-five-year-old former milkman who had never aspired to be anything more than the profession he'd obtained. Growing up in the time period he had, milkmen were a fairly prevalent, as their jobs were essential in his hometown and looked upon with pride. By the time Ivan was old enough to become what he admired the most, the profession was facing a downhill slide. Not only had more stores popped up across the US, making shopping for such things much more practical, but innovations such as refrigerators had become more and more reliable at keeping things cold, fresh and maintained, diminishing the need, daily and otherwise, for milkmen overall.

When the company he had worked for went under and Ivan was informed that he would be performing his final milk run, something in him snapped. He couldn't handle a changing America, and he couldn't fathom losing the one thing he had aspired to be the most. A voice in his head told him that his customers wouldn't be able to handle it either, so he should take care of them, make his last day _their_ last day. Ivan took a full milk bottle and bludgeoned his boss' head in once he learned of the news. He went on to kill the secretary and three other milkmen who were still getting ready for their day before he left for his route. By the time the police were called about a suspicious milkman wandering the streets in a blood-soaked white uniform, Ivan had already visited three households and butchered the families with the fire ax he acquired from the dairy processing plant. He was arrested without incident and committed to the Crestridge Mental Institute, a state-run residence for the criminally insane, once he was found not guilty by reason of insanity. He had only been a patient at the hospital for one year when he broke free one night, killing four orderlies brutally with a large fire ax before his escape.

Ray had heard the all-points bulletins again and again throughout that fateful night, a harrowing reality for the at-the-time rookie who was only two weeks on the job, but what really made his stomach churn was when highway patrol had called the station, stating they saw a car on the side of the road, something seemed skeptical about it and they wanted a couple officers to look into it. What caused Ray to dread the thought was that Pam, his ex, his high-school sweetheart... the love of his life, was quite possibly still out with her new boyfriend, Johnny, and in complete danger. A nagging concern in his head told him that the car was the same '57 Ford Thunderbird that he had seen her and her beau in earlier at the local make-out spot, Atkins Point. When he arrived on the scene, it only took one look at the car parked on the side of Route 66 and Ray knew his fears were correct- it was the same Thunderbird from earlier in the night. There was also something next to it, something that looked very similar to a human appendage. While Mitch Harbor, Ray's partner, took a look in the woods, Ray approached the seemingly abandoned vehicle and picked up the dismembered forearm on the road. The sight of the hand attached to it made his stomach sink and his mind crack; he recognized it instantly. It was a hand he had caressed all throughout high-school, kissed softly on passionate nights, and thought he would hold daily for the rest of his life. It was Pam's hand.

He found more of her on the road, and in the car, and in the woods. She had been chopped up into so many pieces he couldn't even count them all... he didn't _want_ to count them all. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. Sure, Pam had broken up with him when he decided to pursue a career in the law enforcement field after high school instead of going to college, but he had assured himself that he would easily win her back when she realized how serious he was about the line of work, once she saw that he was willing to make it work and rise through the ranks. All of those dreams were suddenly dead. They were just as dead as Pam and as the realization of that truly began to sink in, he screamed. He screamed into the night, yelled and howled in agony over the death of his ex, and as he did so the crack in his mind splintered in all directions, hobbling his morals, convictions and sense of justice horribly.

They never found Ivan Wroth that night, or the next night, or the next. The serial killer hadn't vanished completely though, as ax murders continued in the days following his escape. They all lead to a straight path that would have easily pointed authorities to the deranged murderer, but Ray had another idea in mind and purposefully mislead his brothers in blue at various turns so he could track down Ivan himself. When he did, what followed wasn't routine police work... it was revenge. Every night that he tracked him, Ray carried his twelve-gauge shotgun with him, and the night he found him was no different. The rookie looked the psychopath dead in the eyes as he leveled his firearm off at his chest and blew a hole through Ivan's back with the slug that ripped out of the barrel.

Ray wrapped the body in plastic and buried it in a vacant lot. There would be a lot of families that would not get to feel the justice he had just felt, that would think that Ivan Wroth had simply vanished into thin air and could return again and any time to start killing once more, but Ray didn't care. His retaliation was selfish and would remain a secret and he truly didn't give a good Goddamn. With the deed done and over with, the cracks in his mind seemed to heal over, like a bandage had been placed over them to fix the broken spots. Only, Ray never fully recovered from what happened nor from what he did. No more was he the smiling newcomer to the force that went out of his way to connect with his fellow officers nor the playboy on the force that he could have become if things never panned out with Pam. He shut himself off from life, from people, and while he kept his job and advanced through the ranks, he hated it just as much as he did everything else.

"Cal- California," the detective finally blurted out, pulling himself from memory lane and causing Herbert's incessant laughter to quickly die out. As he spoke, he shifted in his seat, looking forward to the road again as his foot finally slipped off the brake pedal. "We're in Crestridge, California."

A whirlwind of a thought ripped through Herbert's mind at the announcement of his location. _California?! We were just somewhere in Kentucky, according to the license plates, and I went there in a blink of an eye from Massachusetts. I've spanned one end of the country to the other!_

The doctor continued staring at the man, only solemnly this time and with a much more subdued smile. He listened to the man in the driver's seat release a shaky breath and felt the car slowly begin to pick up speed again as the accelerator was engaged. He didn't know what had shifted, and he was quite certain that his captor didn't believe a word he had said and his laughter only helped to further his disbelief, but it was quite clear that _something_ had changed in the man.

In his head, Ray wanted to believe that Herbert was crazy, a madman, one who had clearly flown over the cuckoo's nest... but there was a certain truth about what he had said as well. He didn't know exactly where Herbert's vague list of places were actually located, but if the university he mentioned was Corman University, that would certainly lend itself to his credibility. The only thing that was off was the time. It was undeniable that something was amiss in the town of Crestridge, but the authorities had kept it mostly under wraps. First there was the frozen body that disappeared from the cryogenics lab, showing up on the steps of the Kappa Delta Sigma sorority the same night it vanished. The head was the only visibly damaged area and, at first, Cameron his mistook the injury for that of an ax-wound, stirring old fears that he had never truly managed to put to rest for twenty-seven years. When the second body, a local lab tech from the cryogenics lab who had died from unknown causes the night the frozen corpse vanished, first disappeared from police custody and then somehow showed up near the lab the young man had worked at, Ray began to have worsening suspicions. The lab tech's body had gone through extensive damage due to the autopsy that was being performed on it before it went missing, but the coroner, Jake, swore up and down that he had not touched the head of the body, and certainly hadn't done whatever it took to split the skull in two. Aside from the head injury, there was another disturbing coincidence that the detective had noticed: the destroyed cranial cavities contained hardly any brain matter left in them, and what was left looked like it had been put through a blender. Lastly, of course, there was the recently re-deceased Ivan Wroth, who had absolutely no business up and roaming around or killing the Kappa Delta Sigma's house mother, even if her cottage was built over the spot Ray buried him in. Worse yet was that the detective's gut was telling him that this wasn't over, that there would be more brainless-bodies showing up if they didn't figure out just what the hell was going on and put a stop to it. Remembering what John had addressed his detainee as earlier, the detective took a leap of faith and asked Herbert if he really was a doctor.

Herbert hesitated in his answer, feeling very on edge about such an out-of-place question and trying to figure out how it related to anything they were talking about beforehand.

"Yeah, I thought so," Cameron sighed, "'Doctor' is probably just your lousy street name or something and the lab smock just adds to your little fantasy."

"I _am_ a doctor, alright?!" Herbert replied with audibly irritation. "And a scientist... I just don't have my license to practice yet."

"Okay, Doc," Ray continued, his normal demeanor returning to him as the two continued on. "You ever hear of a case where someone's head can split in two from the inside?"

"What, like their head just exploded?" Herbert asked, mockery lining his question.

"Close. It's really like their head just cracked open. Kinda like when a flower blooms, ya know?" He took a quick look back to see if Herbert was following along with him. "Besides, if the head exploded there'd be blood and brains everywhere. With the two bodies we found, there was hardly any blood or brains left in 'em."

After thinking for a few seconds, Herbert countered, "Even if that were the case and you weren't just dealing with a killer who had a knack for sanitation, it sounds like there would have to be some sort of immense pressure to crack the skull in two instead of just forcing everything out through the nose and eye sockets."

Cameron looked ill for a moment, like he had to hold back a bad case of nausea. "Jesus Christ, Doc..."

"Unless..." Herbert trailed for a moment, taking everything he was told into consideration. "Unless the pressure is being created by some kind of foreign object that not only expands, but also eats away at both soft and hard tissue, like brain matter _and_ bone..."

"Never found anything inside the head, though. Just one empty hole."

"Bot flies," Herbert answered without giving the idea much more thought. "There have been several cases where bot fly larvae has managed to tunnel its way into its host's brain, both animal and human, and eat away at it. Then again, they wouldn't cause a head to split open."

His answer immediately made Ray flash back to blowing Ivan Roth's head to smithereens. Things came out of it. Things that hit the cold, hard concrete below and scurried away, leaving the rotting corpse to collapse to the ground. He needed to head home. He needed to head home immediately to take a better look at a certain set of crime scene photographs from a case that happened twenty-seven years ago. But first...

* * *

As the Fordor pulled to a slow stop in front of the police station some minutes later, Herbert's eyes widened. He had been so lost in thought trying to piece together not only the puzzle the detective had hinted to him but also what was happening in the town of Crestridge, he had completely forgotten he was being escorted to jail.

"You can't be serious about throwing us in jail still?!"

"Dead serious, Froggy," Cameron replied.

Herbert was left with a half-mortified, half-confused look on his face as he tried to ascertain if the detective was joking or not. After all, he reasoned, they were just touching on the subject of death. "But- but we can help you with these cases! Help you figure out what happened to those people, why their heads ruptured from the inside, why the dead are up and walking again We can-"

"No way three civilians are gonna be trotted along on a case, especially ones as sketchy as you guys. Unless, that is, you feel like finally telling me the story behind you and your buddies being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Somewhat deflated, Herbert replied, "You wouldn't believe me if I tried."

Detective Cameron looked at Herbert with an earnest interest from his reflection in the rear-view mirror. "Thrill me."

The doctor opened his mouth to begin talking before his logic got the better of him. _You really expect him to believe a word you say after you explain that you've been time and location hoping for the past few hours?_ he inwardly chided. _He_ might _believe your accounts of the re-animated, but you'd have to lie about everything else. You're a horrible on-the-spot liar... and trying to lie to a trained police officer? Not smart, Herbert._ Knowing he couldn't carry on, the doctor released a hefty sigh and bowed his head.

"Silence might not be an admission of guilt, Froggy, but it sure as hell don't make you look innocent, either," Ray said with a sigh of his own, opening his door and getting out of the car. "Maybe a night in the clink will change your mind."

* * *

Even though detective Cameron had given the hand-off officer specific instructions not to place any of the three men in the same cell, that was exactly what happened to Herbert after he was booked. The officer didn't really have much of a choice, though. The 'drunk tank' cell was full, the cell at the back of the station still had a broken lock and the only cell left was the one John was already in. As Herbert was lead down the long, narrow hall, he took a look at his dingy surroundings. The area was dark, lit only by sparsely placed hanging ceiling lamps that had seen better days. Most of them had low-watt bulbs that barely illuminated anything. The paint on the cement floor was cracked and outright missing in spots, making for somewhat of a dangerous walk in the badly-lit area. As the doctor walked passed the drunk tank, he could see at least eight people crammed into the small space, all of which having to share a single toilet and sink, both showing severe signs of wear, tear and neglect. A brief smile appeared on Herbert's face at the sight of his traveling companion as the insides of the next cell came into view. He was sitting on one of the wall-mounted benches, snug in-between the sink and the toilet.

The cell door slammed shut with enough unexpected force to cause Herbert to jump at the sound and John to release a single laugh at the sight.

"Not used to being behind bars, huh doc?" John watched as Herbert's handcuffs were removed as he held his hands through the rectangular slit in the cell door.

Herbert turned around and began rubbing at his wrists, right where the cuffs were tightened a little too much. "And you are, I imagine?"

John shrugged, a smirk lining his lips. "I wasn't always the fine specimen of morality you see sitting in front of you today. Hell, I was on the real bad side of the law once upon a time. Me an' a whole gang of other idiots."

"Mm-hmm," Herbert hummed in slight disregard, more concerned over what was missing than what John was saying. "And Spider- where is he?"

Before John could answer, slurred shouts came from the drunk tank across the hall.

"Hey! Did you just say there was a spider in your cell?"

"There's spiders in here?! You can't lock us up I these conditions- it's against the Geneva Conventions!"

"Someone said 'sliders and beer', right?"

The commotion continued for over a minute, the voices from the intoxicated inhabitants from the other cell growing louder and louder, until an officer poked his head around the corner and yelled for everyone to quiet down.

After things had calmed, Herbert walked to where John was sitting and motioned for him to scoot over, plopping down beside him when he did so.

"What the hell is a "sliders'?" the gunslinger immediately asked, keeping his voice somewhat quiet to avoid eavesdroppers again.

"A 'slider'," Herbert corrected with a slight smile, "is apparently a food option of choice for young, drunk college students here. It's a small hamburger."

John seemed to muse on the the answer for a moment before changing the subject entirely. "Not sure where the kid is," he finally replied, going back to the doctor's question that brought about the disturbance across from them. "We were right behind 'em, and they made it here first- and mind you we only made it here about fifteen minutes before you showed up, I reckon. Anyway, He must have some kind of way about him, because that lady officer was nothing but smiles and he was yappin' on and on to her as she led him into the building."

"He probably made us all sound crazy," Herbert lamented, assuming Spider had broke and told the officer about the morgue and the white light.

John began to chuckle through his reply. "No, I don't think so. Not with the way that lady was smiling."

Herbert looked at his crony for a moment, almost angry that the cowpuncher could _assume_ to know something he did not. "Well he's not here, so he either said something worthy of interrogation or they are holding him in another room."

A long beat of silence followed the short-lived discussion of their missing partner. Neither man knew what to say next... but Herbert knew what he _should_ say, even if he didn't particularly care to.

"Tell me about this troublesome gang of yours," the doctor finally released, not at all caring that his tone was of a 'ho-hum' manner. He figured that if he was going to be stuck with John until they figured this whole mess out, depend on him more than he had anyone in his life before, that he could at least humor the man by pretending to have an interest in his life and what he had to say. Deep down, there was a legitimate curiosity Herbert held towards John and the history the man must have had, it was just that that intrigue was overridden by the good doctor's survival instincts.

"And here I thought you were too concerned with your research papers to hear any more of my crazy, 'made-up' stories." John made sure to apply a healthy air-quote to the key part of his sentence for emphasis.

Herbert released a laugh. A real, honest-to-god laugh. In truth, he was worried about his notes. His heart nearly burst from his chest several times from stints of uncontrollable inner-anxiety, but he also knew that worrying was all he could do at the moment... and that wasn't going to help anyone. "Well," he began, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose before leaning forward, resting his arms on his legs and clasping his hands together, "as a man in a mortuary once told me, 'Can't get to 'em right now, so I best just worry about the here and now.'"

A look of shock overcame John's face as he heard the doctor try his best to imitate not only his words, but his voice as well. There was a low, guttural roughness to the tone, alongside a painfully fake drawl. If it wasn't for the fact that the gunslinger knew West, he might have felt insulted, but the fact that it _was_ West made it amusing to the man. His astonishment soon turned to delight as he found himself cracking up at the absurd imitation. "You are full of surprises, West," John proclaimed, a laugh still wrapping his words. "Full of them." After taking a moment to collect himself, John pondered on where the best place to start would be with the recounting of Dutch's gang, and he settled on the point that most would: the beginning.


	15. Denial

John had only been telling his life's story to West for a little over a half an hour when the sight of two long shadows approaching the cell stopped him, causing a bit of a cliffhanger as the story stopped just when the gunslinger began to explain how Dutch and the gang had left him for dead after he had taken a bullet in a botched bank robbery attempt. Had John looked over at his audience of one instead of the creeping shadows, he would have seen that the doctor's expression was one of fascination and intrigue.

Not that he ever would have admitted it, but Herbert was enthralled by the gunslinger's tales. At first he thought of them as interesting because he believed John to either be the best liar he had ever come across, or the most severe case of mental illness he had ever seen. Now, though, he was sure the man was of sound mind and his narrations were true, which made them almost hypnotizing when being told. Even when Herbert had his doubts, John's reminiscence brought back a wave of nostalgia for the doctor from his younger days. Back then, his only concerns were what dinner was going to be or if a rain-cloud was going to ruin his day of adventuring, and his only forms of entertainment came in the few channels they could receive on their small, black-and-white TV and the yarns his father shared with him, both of which consisted mainly of Wild West themes. Though the memories were not buried in the dark recesses of Herbert's mind like some horrible recollection, he had hardly ever thought of the days when he was a carefree child. The simple, powerful flashbacks brought a welcomed, unexpected calm to his nerves and he found himself quite enjoying the fleeting bliss.

The sound of keys being jangled drew Herbert's attention to the front of the cell and both men watched in silence as an officer led Spider to the caged cubicle.

John wore a half-smirk, pleased to see the young man was still fine and well, but also taking note of the puffed-up look on his face, smug smile and all.

Herbert did not smile at the sight of the punk. He showed no emotion whatsoever, as he still wasn't sure if the delinquent had opened his big mouth and dug their hole even deeper. In his silent observation, Herbert did notice something John had not: Spider's handcuffs were loose on his wrists. So loose that he probably could've slipped out of them if he wanted to, and the officer even went as far as removing the restraints before her jailbird was even in the cell.

Spider stepped into the small room once the door was opened and nodded to the female officer when she told him she was going to call in to the Louisville P.D. to check on the town's status and his friends. Once she left, he made his way over to the cot attached to the left wall and flopped down on the thin mattress like it was his own bed, even crossing his feet atop one another and lacing his hands behind his head.

It took Herbert a moment to pull himself from his observant state, not even realizing that John was doing the exact same thing, but when he did, he let annoyance form his words. "She's going to check with the Louisville police to get information on the town's status and your friends?" He had spoken too loud and riled at least one of the drunks in the cell just diagonal of theirs.

"Nobody ever checks on my friends!"

While the two older men simply ignored the outburst, keeping their eyes glued to their third cellmate, Spider made a bit of a face towards the hall before he spoke up. He explained that Elizabeth, or Officer Palmer, was actually pretty shaken by what she had witnessed in the alleyway, breaking down to him about it in the squad car as he pleaded with her to check on his friends because they were in a few buildings that were surrounded by 'those things'. It was the second call she had been on that night that involved something that was supposed to be dead getting up and moving around. The first incident was a cat. As they drove, he did his best to console her, to alleviate her fears, because he knew exactly how she felt and he would have killed to have someone do the same thing for him during the events at the graveyard and the funeral home. In many respects, he _still_ felt exactly as she did, he just had time to adapt to the emotional state. After a few minutes, he had her smiling, even laughing a time or two, and feeling slightly calmer overall. It was the least he could do, he figured, since the streets were not crawling with the undead in search of brains yet, as he fully expected them to be soon. She was a beautiful girl, as the other two could clearly see as well, though they may not have appreciated it in the same was Spider did, so he figured it wouldn't hurt to try to make her feel better about things before all hell broke loose. Once her mood lightened, Spider switched gears and began hitting on the female officer again; he found that he just couldn't help himself around her. He kept his attempts subtle at first, and was quite surprised to find that she was reacting to his efforts just as he hoped she would. He knew he had looks and charm on his side when it came to the opposite sex, but for some reason he never expected either to carry him very far in an attempt to court someone in law enforcement. He had surprised himself and upped the ante as a result. By the time they'd made it to the station, Officer Palmer had taken it upon herself to inform her fellow officers that her detainee wanted to write out a full account of his experience of the evening.

"Wait," Herbert interrupted, causing Spider to raise a brow at the man. "She let you write a report for her?"

Unintentionally, it was the first time Herbert had come across as completely clueless to either man. Even John, to his own surprise, grasped the underlying sexual innuendo Spider was building towards. While the doctor was an undeniable genius, likely having the brains to contest wits with the most intellectually inclined he could come across, he was still profoundly stunted in certain aspects of his life. Sex was one of those aspects, and relationships were another. He understood they were to go hand-in-hand, but he had absolutely no understanding of _how_ they were supposed to. Innuendos usually flew over his head, people being flirtatious with one another baffled him sometimes, but simply irritated him mostly because it felt more like a distraction than anything else. All things carnal felt particularly useless and detracting to the man, aside from the fact that they were a means to the only way to bring new life into the world. This wasn't to say that Herbert was a virgin though; quite the opposite, actually. It was because he had had sex that he grew to detest it and almost all of the things it could bring in the aftermath. The experience, overall, wasn't nearly as satisfactory as he had been led to believe it would be, and he found that the end result was only slightly more intense than what he could do for himself, and it was far more time-consuming and messy. His partner, Leah Adamson, had become notably attached afterwards, too much for his liking, practically latching herself onto him and demanding more and more of his time for 'them' when he refused to even recognize there was such a thing. After his limited experience with it, Herbert concluded that sex was only good for one thing, and even that was flawed. Humans as a whole were imperfect and the doctor had no time to involve himself in something that would not strictly adhere to his discipline to it... and human will was beyond harnessing.

"Um, no man, I didn't write no report," Spider scoffed in reply, almost laughing at how precisely he would have to draw this out for the man. "But Elizabeth sure let me do a whole lotta other stuff to and for her." He had hoped he filled his correcting response with enough direct hints that Herbert couldn't have missed the meaning unless he was deaf.

It took a moment, but a flash of understanding lit up the doctor's face. "Oh! Oh- in the interrogation room?!" His tone changed from astonished to disturbed in record time.

"All over the damn room!"

John began to laugh, smacking his own knee. "I told ya there was something about that smile of her's, West."

"After we were finished, I sweet-talked her into checking on Louiseville, seein' if they got to Chuck, Casey, Tina and all them."

There was still a smile on Spider's face, but both men could see it falter considerably at the utterance of his last words. John and Herbert quickly glanced at one another, but it was the doctor who took the lead in what would likely be a very difficult conversation.

"Spider," he began, keeping his voice low but above a whisper, "you do remember what happened, right? We were in the warehouse, and then the light?" He didn't mean to sound like he was speaking to a child, it was just that he hadn't thought of a better way to explain where he was going with his statement.

"Yeah- what the hell was-"

Herbert quickly cut-in on Spider's reply, wanting to capitalize on the young man's attention. "We're in California now, Spider. Crestridge, California, to be precise." He stopped for a moment to survey how the punk was digesting such a big piece of news and found that he didn't seem shocked at all.

Spider sighed. "Yeah, Elizabeth told me the same thing when when I asked her where we were." Disappointment dripped from his voice, as if he was hoping she was somehow wrong about their location. "How is that possible, though? I mean we musta been drugged, right? Drugged and brought here for some reason."

"No," Herbert hook his head. "You see, that's what that light, that damned mask, does. It transports people to different places-"

"And different _times_ ," John added, much to Herbert's dismay.

The doctor wanted to ease in to that part, as he remembered finding out he was nowhere near Arkham was enough of a shock without the double-whammy of also being told he had gone back in time as well.

"What?! Different times?" Spider questioned, already scrunching up his face in scrutiny and voicing his words with a hint of doubt. "John, you conk your head on the car ride over here or somethin'?"

"West didn't believe me, neither, then he found out it was 1984 when we ran into you and yours. That was... what was it, Doc? Around a whole year earlier than your time?"

"You really are horrible at this, you know that right, cowboy?" Herbert posed with a sigh. "You have no idea how to slowly introduce something to someone so their mind has a chance to accept it instead of fight it."

"Not sure I'm following you, West."

"Ya'll motha-fuckas are crazy," Spider simply released as he re-positioned himself on the cot, trying to find a somewhat comfortable spot on the abused mattress. "And I ain't talkin' to either of you again 'til you both start makin' some damn sense."

"Spider, it's sometime in September here, not the beginning of July anymore. That detective even hinted as much when he commented on our collective appearance and said we were early for Halloween by over a month."

Averting his gaze to an empty corner of the room, occupied only by a cobweb, the punk crossed his arms over his chest and again stated he would not talk about something so crazy.

Smirking, John said, "I believe our friend is in denial, West."

A little while passed before both Herbert and John began to move on from their efforts to engage Spider in their previous conversation once again. All they would get from him when they tried was an 'mm-mm' or a much more forward 'nuh-uh'.

As John began to pick up with where he left off with reliving his past, Spider suddenly began to show signs of interest in what the two men were discussing.

"Hey, no, come on now," he began, garnering the amused attention of John and an irritated glare from Herbert. "If you're gonna be tellin' shit from your past you gotta go back to where you started so I can follow along."

While the demand was met with a predictable eye-roll from one of the men, the other replied to the request.

"Alright," John laughed with a nod, "I'll start over, but once I'm finished you gotta hear us out on this whole mess, 'cause it may sound crazy, but it's true."

Spider looked between the two men for a second before nodding himself and allowing the gunslinger to start from the beginning.

* * *

Around a half an hour later, just by the time John had once more made it the point where he was explaining, with great detail and production, how his supposed 'family', his alleged 'friends' had left him high and dry with a bullet hole in his chest as the result of a bank robbery gone sideways, when the sound of footsteps grabbed the attention of all three men. It was Officer Palmer, much to Spider's delight, but she wore a discouraging look. A smile barely peppered her lips, and in its small form, it sent signals of sadness, distress and flat-out doubt. As the youth made his way to the equally young-looking officer and placed his hand atop hers on the cell bars, she looked down and pulled her hand away before peering back up at him. If her expression had not already sent bad vibes to everyone, her most recent action certainly would have.

"Spider, did you... did you lie to me? Louisville is fine..."

Hesitantly, Spider quickly glanced over his shoulder, back towards the two men who were still perched on the bench between the toilet and sink, and looked back at the officer again, replying in a whisper that was far too low for anyone but the two at the cell door to hear. The two continued to talk in a hushed tone for a few minutes, with only a few words being spoken loud enough to be heard, but neither of the two men listening at the back of the cell being able to piece together the conversation. Herbert, at least, could tell that whatever the talk involved, it was disappointing to Spider. More than a few large sighs had already escaped him, the man's shoulders drooped, his head continually turned downward towards the floor and he couldn't stop running his hand through his hair, a sign Herbert was quite familiar with thanks to Dan and his relentless anxiety.

"I'm sorry, Spider, but I have to book you now. Your story just doesn't check out." Officer Palmer spoke out a bit louder, after asking the young man to put both hands through the oblong opening so she could fit him in cuffs. This time they were tightened to the required degree and both Herbert and John watched as their acquaintance was taken out of sight, down the hall. All throughout the ordeal, Spider never spoke another word, a solemn appearance all that could be seen on his face.

"Think she told him what we were tryin' to get to? About Tina and the others, and how things... might not be the same anymore?" John asked after a minute of silence.

"I have no doubt she did." A few scenarios ran through Herbert's mind of what the quiet conversation could have consisted of as he replied in his usual monotone speech pattern.

"I wish I knew how to get that kid back home," John sighed. "Hell, I wish I knew how to get all of us back home."

His words sparked a recollection in Herbert's mind, one that he wasn't too fond of sharing, but knew that he would have to before the secret revealed itself anyway.

"Speaking of our group here... we might have a bigger problem," Herbert admitted, a nervous laugh accompanying his words.

"What, West?" the gunslinger asked, not a note of sentiment in his voice.

"That detective, um... Ray Cameron... we may be seeing more of him... wherever we go next."

"What?! Goddamnit, West! He touched the mask?!" John was suddenly in a rage, the notion of connecting yet another straggler to their mysterious predicament spiraling him into an immediate state of anger and disarray.

"I couldn't- he didn't even listen!" Herbert stammered in reply, remembering what happened when John became angered the last time. A tightness started in his chest and slowly began to spread to the rest of his body. Ever so slightly, his left hand began to shake uncontrollably, reacting to his sudden onset of stress in its own way. Herbert rarely felt fear, and when he did it was generally towards something that _everyone_ would fear. John was another matter entirely, as he was not a truly threatening or imposing man from most stand points, but Herbert knew what he could do in the flash of an eye... and the backstory he had heard about himself only strengthened the notion that, at any time, he could suddenly become a wolf in sheep's clothing.

"Shit!" John cursed, but in a much lower tone this time. He closed his eyes, as if trying to calm and collect himself. "Shit, shit shit. This ain't no traveling circus, West, but it sure feels like it's turning into one, doesn't it?"

The doctor quickly realized that John wasn't mad at him, just the situation overall, and relaxed immensely with the understanding. He continued to remain silent after the small outburst, but John stood a few moments later, releasing yet another, quieter, obscenity and looking towards the bed on the other side of the cell.

"What the hell are we supposed to do with that guy followin' us from place to place? He don't seem to like us none already, can't imagine tearin' him from his home will change his attitude much for the better."

West merely raised a hand to the bridge of his nose, moving his glasses down so he could wipe at his eyes and squeeze the area of skin lightly, before he simply shaking his head in response. Just the thought of being stuck with the grievous police officer was enough to make his head throb in dread.

"Shit," John released in a quieter, calmer tone, "I'm too tired for this. Maybe getting some shuteye and waking up with a clear head'll make this mess a lick easier to nip." He looked back at the doctor, who appeared either exasperated or exhausted, perhaps both. There was a clear grimace on the man's face as he rubbed gently at the upper dorsal of his nose. "You, uh, wanna lay down, Doc? I'd be damned if you don't look like you need a bed more than I do right now. I imagine Spider'll want his spot back sooner or later and if you're tired too, well, I'm pretty used to sleeping on the bare earth if that's the best I can get, and this ain't much different." He lightly stomped one boot onto the concrete floor for emphasis.

"No," Herbert declined, breathing the single word out in solace, a hint of a smile on his face. "I'm not tired, believe it or not." The weaker re-agent was still pulsing through his veins, revitalizing his core in place of rest and pushing his drive forward with renewed vigor and consciousness. It would last for at least another day, maybe a little longer, but the doses were becoming less and less potent to his body as he began to build up a resistance to the formula. He knew he would soon need to increase the strength for it to continue to work (it would be his second time doing so since discovering the chemical's alternative use), but strengthening the dosage would be entering into actual, dangerous territory where he could end up like one of his test subjects... or worse.

John looked at the doctor for a lingering moment, somewhat shocked by the statement. West had been running around, chased by things that wanted to harm him or eat his flesh for nearly as long as John, and the gunslinger was thoroughly exhausted. For his partner to merely shrug the idea of sleep off, while suddenly looking as awake and chipper as a rooster at sunrise, was unexpected. "You're a strange man, West," he released with a laugh, shaking his head and walking towards the wall-mounted cot. "But you got more stamina than a damn Thoroughbred I reckon."

Herbert merely continued to watch John as he laid down on the cot and released a long, exhausted-sounding sigh. The gunslinger rose a hand over the top of his head, covering his eyes from the light of the room, and rested the other across his belly as he wriggled into a comfortable position on his back. As Herbert's gaze fell to the cell bars at the front of the room once more, John spoke again, in a voice that grew more feint and drowsy as his words built.

"You know West, I remember passing by a street preacher back home... or, hell, maybe he was just a crazy fool. Either way, he said something that, to this day, I have yet to shake the feel of. In the middle of all his religious nonsense, he said, 'If you truly accept the existence of God, then you also have to accept the reality of evil.' Truth be told, I've never been a very religious man, but I do believe in God. I thought I knew evil, too. The evil that lies in the heart of every man, woman and child on earth, but... with all I witnessed back home, everything I've witnessed since meeting up with you, I can't deny that there is a darker evil, a pure evil, out there, and it's real. More real than I would've ever liked to believe."

Herbert released a short laugh, crossing his arms over his chest and continuing to look forward while replying to his cellmate. "Are you trying to say that my reanimates are _evil_ , John?"

Another sigh escaped the gunslinger, as well as a yawn he talked through. "You tellin' me they're not? Trying explaining that to the one that had you wrapped up with its insides, or the two that attacked Seth, or tell that to your friend, Dan, and his reanimated, not-so-sweet sweetheart."

Herbert fell silent, his thoughts all at once consumed by his colleague and roommate. He hadn't though about Dan since having scampered from the hospital, but with his name fresh in his mind, the doctor couldn't help but wonder what fate befell Dan and Meg, and how things were playing out with the almost-certain discovery of the massacre in the morgue. He sat there, lost in thought, for a few minutes before the ever-increasing sound of John's snoring broke him from his trance. It wasn't long after that that Officer Palmer escorted Spider back to the cell. No words were exchanged between anyone, and the young man didn't even bother to look back to watch the female officer leave after she quietly closed the door.

"Everything alright?" Herbert asked, quite awkwardly, minutes after the younger man had taken a seat on the cot bolted to the alternate wall. It was another situation where the doctor knew he should say something, but didn't particularly feel compelled to truly engage in conversation. The sullen, defeated look on Spider's face gave him his answer before he even asked, but he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Man," Spider began in a glum tone, "nothing's goin' on in Louisville, there ain't no damn place called 'Resurrection Funeral Home' no more, and my friend's home phone number dials to a fuckin' retirement center now. So, no, things sure as shit ain't goin' alright, alright?"

Herbert rolled his eyes and shook his head, inwardly telling himself that the response he received was the _exact_ reason why he felt no need to participate in such pleasantries. "Love withered on the vine, did it?"

Spider's glared at Herbert with a cross look on his face, releasing a puff of dismissal a moment later. You know what, man?" he asked, jutting his chin towards the man on the bench but not really caring if he paid attention or not. "John's got the right idea." He proceeded to lie down on the worn mattress, roughly flipping to his side so he was facing the wall. "Maybe I'll get lucky and wake up to this whole fuckin' thing just being one long-ass nightmare."

In only a little while, snoring sounds were invading the doctor's ears from both sides, but he was able to block out the sounds of sleep and concentrate on the mysteries he found himself a part of. Mysteries like how and why they kept going from one place to another. More than an hour later, Herbert heard voices faintly echoing down the hall and he moved to the front of the cell in an attempt to get a better idea of what was being said. It was a pair of officers, likely seated on their butts in the front room, talking about the same odd events that Detective Cameron had told him about in the car ride to the station. The voices floated in, low, but clear enough for him to understand the back and forth.

"Hey, was that another code 926 I heard coming in over the radio when I went to the can?"

"Sure was, and it might be a 187, too, but it sounds more like the other bodies we've found this week."

"It's gotta be some sorta sick serial killer who's escalating, right? I mean what kind of freak steals a cadaver to mutilate it and kills a guy, steals his body, too, and does the same thing? A psychopath, that's who."

"Another body's not even the best part. Get this- I just heard it was that janitor who pinned those two kids as the ones who dumped the first body on the steps of that sorority. You know, Mr. 'screaming like banshees'?"

"Shit, really?"

"Yup. Found just like the other two- head split open and his brains looked like Swiss cheese! Oh, and hey, get this- word is that they found the stiff in a campus bathroom, and a ton of slugs or leeches or something scattered out when some poor kid found the body."

"So?"

"So they moved faster than a horny jackrabbit. You heard of a slug movin' fast... ever?"

_A fast slug?_ Herbert had to admit the officer made a valid point. Even a leech was slow out of water. His mind traveled back to the corpse that had him cornered, the corpse that the detective had blown the head off of and black, slug-like creatures had fallen from the destroyed cranium, hitting the ground and skittering off into the night in a flash. Herbert knew there had to be a connection between the insects and the odd behavior of the dead rising in this place; he also knew that he suddenly, badly wanted to get his hands on one or two of those... things... to study them.

* * *

The night quickly phased into morning for the three men, with two of them sleeping and one lost deep in thought and mental analysis. Herbert had come to a conclusion about the "slugs" and why they would burst forth from their host's skull, but he had no idea where they could have evolved from. The 7:30 AM arrival of breakfast, brought courtesy of Officer Palmer as the last deed of her night shift, brought all three men together again, but not before Spider could ask what was going on with them.

Still somewhat groggy from just waking up, he handed the two previous trays to the other men before taking a moment to initiate a conversation with the woman who brought them their food. "Thanks, Elizabeth- I mean Officer Palmer. I think we were all starvin' back here."

"You can still call me Elizabeth, if you want." There was a hint of a smile on her face as she corrected him.

An amorous grin spread across Spider's lips as he peered in her here eyes for a moment before looking away. "Any, uh, any idea when we're gonna get the f-... when we're gonna get outta here? You're the only one in this whole damn place that's even talked to us, 'side from those drunks."

There was a sigh from the officer before she responded. "Your all under Detective Cameron's custody, so I can't really say if you're getting out of here or not. He usually likes to come in late and make people wait until their twenty-four hours are nearly up before he either let's them go or charges them. He'll come in and talk to all of you, you're just going to have to wait it out." She leaned closer to the bars that separated them to whisper the next part out. "Cameron's a great agent, but he's kind of a dick to his perps. No offense."

Looking rather disappointed that his stay in confinement was nowhere near over and he had hours upon hours to wait for news, Spider took the last tray, his own, and once again said goodbye to Elizabeth as she left the three to eat.

While Spider's words about the level of hunger in the cell were mostly true, Herbert was once again the odd man out, merely picking at his food instead of scarfing it down like the other two.

"Why did _you_ get an apple?" the doctor asked, a slight sneer in his voice, before he took a bite of his granola bar.

Those were the first words anyone had spoken to each other since they began to eat.

Spider smiled, swallowing the mouthful of food he was chewing before answering. "Elizabeth asked me if I had any special requests for breakfast before she brought me back here after gettin' my prints and pictures. If I really thought she was serious, I woulda said her instead of this damn fruit."

John grinned and shook his head, taking another spoonful of corn flakes cereal from his Styrofoam bowl. When first presented with the items, the gunslinger merely looked at the assortment of food in front of him as if they were foreign objects... mainly because they were for the man. Silently, Spider helped John transverse the simple task of mixing his powdered milk and then making an orange-flavored drink with the enriched drink mix with the remaining water in the glass. Once again John was amazed at the things that had changed from his time. He had tried powdered milk before, and the stuff tasted god-awful. What he was experiencing with his cereal (which he had also heard of before, but always thought was 'too fancy' for him) was nothing like the paste he had been presented with in 1907.

"Well, if- if you don't actually want the apple, I'll take it," Herbert quietly suggested.

Spider held the apple and looked at it for a moment, turning it around in his hands, before looking at Herbert's tray. "How 'bout a trade, Doc?"

Doing a quick survey of his own, the doctor made an offer that he was certain the younger man wouldn't turn down, as it was the first item Spider had wolfed down from his own food. "I'll trade you my chocolate chip muffin for your apple..." He scanned the tray for another nanosecond to make sure the other item he was interested in was still actually there. "And your granola bar."

"Two for one?!" Spider scoffed in reply, though a telling, playful smirk appeared on his face immediately after. A moment later, he held out the apple for Herbert.

"Well," Spider began as he handed over his granola bar as well and took the muffin in exchange, "according to Elizabeth, we're gonna be stuck in this damn cell for a few more hours at least, so we might as well continue to make ourselves comfortable. Say, John, since we have some time, maybe you'd like to pick up where you left off the other night? Last thing I remember you talkin' 'bout, your gang ran out on you after you took a bullet to the chest while tryin' to rob a bank."

Slurping down the last bit of milk in his bowl, and causing Spider to laugh while doing so, John lowered the empty dish and wiped a small dribble of milk from his stubbly chin. "You boys actually wanna hear more about my adventures in stupidity?"

Both men merely looked at him expectantly, Herbert almost entering a child-like state of anticipation at the news.

"Well, alright, I guess," John conceded with a small sigh. "That was the day my life changed forever... well, one uh 'em. Like I've told a lot of souls, I left the gang after the gang left me. And the gang certainly left me that day."

As he went on, the gunslinger covered the span of time that stretched from his life as a retired outlaw to the unfortunate events that led him to meet with Herbert. As his tales unfolded and gave twists and births that led to the start of yet another, hours passed for the men, the only interruptions being when lunch and dinner were served (both by a rather silent and spiritless-looking male officer) and occasional questions from Herbert and Spider. When he finished, John looked thoroughly exhausted just from retelling his story, and fairly disheartened with once again bringing to the surface the fact that his family had suffered an unknown fate and he wanted nothing more than to get back to them and fix the whole damn mess everyone found themselves in.

"So, you were born in 1873, John? For-fuckin-real?" Spider asked as the room fell silent, somewhat awe-struck with the fact that wouldn't leave his mind. "So by 1911, that woulda made you, um... thirty-"

"Eight," John finished for the man. "I'm thirty-eight"

"Damn. And what about you Herbert? Takes a while to get through medical school, right?"

"Generally, yes, but it also helps if you start early," the doctor answered in reply, taking note that while Spider was asking questions, he really didn't seem to be absorbing any answers nor looking at his cellmates. "I could have become a doctor when I was twenty-three, after finishing my internships and residencies, but my research was really beginning to take off by that point and, instead, I took a few liberties with my paperwork and suddenly I was a student again, given near-unrestricted access to specimens while only having to feign the appearance of a student, passing the same tests and writing the same papers over and over again. If you're asking how old I am, Spider, I'm twenty-eight."

"Twenty-eight, huh? Freddy was almost twenty-eight before he... well, you know. Him and Trash were the oldest in our group... and Tina and me, we were the youngest, both of us just turning twenty-one earlier in the year. They're all... they really are all dead, aren't they?" Spider finished, rather solemnly, finally allowing the truth to sink in for him. "I mean, if we're time-travellin' an' shit, Tina, Casey, Chuck... they're probably all dead... or still stuck in those buildings that, some-fuckin'-how, don't even exist no more." The young man did not look up at all as he stared a hole into the floor, hands clasped together and desperation clearly in his voice.

Herbert spoke up once again, not exactly caring about the young man's lament of his loss, but wanting to correct what he considered a 'misconception' of what was really going on. "We don't know that we're time-traveling, Spider. Many things just don't make sense even if that is the case. My university is gone even though both John and I were there in 1985, a year before we met you. The funeral home we were all at isn't around anymore, sounds like it never even was now, and John... most of the America he knew is completely foreign to me... and probably you, too. Time-travel just doesn't make sense to me with these anomalies."

Not interested in furthering talk of things that were dragging him down, Spider shifted the discussion with a simple question that threw the doctor. "So, tell me Doc, what the hell were you doin' in a morgue, surrounded by the kind of walkin' stiffs we been runnin' away from all night, needin' to be saved by our cowboy here?"

"I, um..." Herbert awkwardly cleared his throat and fidgeted in his seat for a moment, stalling for time for his surprise to subside.

Before he could continue, the sound of leather-soled shoes slapping against the cold concrete floor signaled the arrival of someone not too far off. Herbert breathed a sigh of relief, but it was only short-lived when he realized whose shoes were making such an announcement. Detective Cameron almost marched in front of the three men, his face void of expression as the flaps of his tan trench coat flapped around due to the speed of his steps. The tie around his neck was loose and off-center and his badge clearly visibly from where it is clipped to his pants, but what really caught everyone's attention was what he was carrying in his right hand- the Remington 870 shotgun that was used to dispatch of the rotted corpse from the previous night.

"You three enjoying your little sleepover?" Cameron asked, an odd smile spreading across his face as another man joined his side. The second man was much younger, perhaps around the same age as Spider if not a year or two younger, and dressed in a rather nice, traditional tuxedo. He wore a solid-white button-up with a black bow-tie, a black jacket with silk-faced lapels, a rose boutonniere pinned to the left side of it, and a black pair of slacks with a matching silk stripe down either side. Leather shoes finished his fancy ensemble, but the man did not look happy to be dressed so good.

"You lettin' us go, old man, or shootin' fish in a barrel?" Spider asked, standing and once again coming off as defiant in the face of authority.

Cameron smiled; the action looked forced and almost painful. "Call me 'old man' again and I'll shove this shotgun so far up your ass that the barrels will tickle your tonsils."

For once, Spider looked stunned and silenced by a response directed at him.

"Now," Cameron breathed, appearing to try to calm himself. "I am gonna let you boys out of here, and I'll even do one better and get all your little toys and clothes out of holding..."

"And my notes?" Herbert reminded.

The detective nodded. "And your notes; brought 'em with."

All three men shared smiles and sighs of relief, but Cameron continued to stare at them, the flat look returning to his face.

"There's just, uh, one thing you three gotta do for me."

The trio stopped their celebrating and looked at the police officer with a mutual sense of dread.

"You see, there's this nasty infestation of brain-eating parasites taking over the college, and you're all gonna help us clear them out."


	16. Aiding and Abetting

As far as Spider was concerned, the detective (who was already on thin ice in the young man's eyes) had just asked them to go on a suicide run for a fight that wasn't any of their business, and without a moment of consideration at that.

"No fuckin' way! We ain't riskin' our lives cause you say so, Mr. Police _Man_!" Spider rebutted, almost immediately. His response was only met with more dread from Herbert, but John couldn't help but smirk, finding the young man's defiance somewhat admirable and reminding him of his own youthful days when he was rebellious.

"Well," Ray released with a small laugh, raising his free hand up to scratch just above his eyebrow. "I sure am glad you're the mouthpiece for this bunch, Buckwheat, because that means you'll also be the one apologizing once those things make it here to the jail. Behind those bars, you'll all be easy prey, just like... how'd you put it? Shooting fish in a barrel?"

The realization was not lost on the men, and John's smirk soon vanished from his face.

"I, uh, I think we need to reconsider that offer, gentlemen," the gunslinger recommended.

Herbert nodded. "I don't think we ever had any other choice."

Spider simply shook his head, sighed and bowed in shame. There was a moment where he thought of countering the older man's words, but he knew there was a solid possibility behind them. "Fuck..."

"There," the detective almost hummed in mock enthusiasm, extracting a set of keys from his pocket. "See how easy it is when we all work together?"

The small pieces of shaped metal clinked and clanged against one another as he fitted one into the lock of the cell, having to finesse its movements several times before it actually unlocked the door.

"Now, let's take a walk down to the armory and inmate property storage, shall we?" Ray continued, swinging the door open as he spoke.

The men left their cage and followed the detective and his tuxedo-wearing associate without another word, all wondering if there was an actual plan or if this truly was going to be a suicide run.

They rounded yet another corner and began to descend a set of stairs that had the word 'ARMORY' written across the side wall in big red letters, followed by an arrow that pointed down the stairs.

"You got any kinda plan, mister?" John asked, being the first one to pipe up since they all left the cell area.

"As a matter-a-fact, I do, cowboy," Ray replied, going on to explain that before Chris (the young man in the tuxedo) had ruined his relaxing evening, he had been looking over crime scene photos from a case that happened nearly three decades before. It involved the incident of a young man found dead in the woods, no apparent cause of death, but the circumstances were certainly odd. There was a large crater next to the body and an odd, long tube-like container lodged in it. It looked like it was made of metal with some sort of clear, reinforced windows. One of the windows was broken, shattered from the inside out, as Ray noted when he took a closer look at the photos, and what was left on the inside seemed to be nothing more than frothy white waste and the shriveled remains of whatever was in the canister before it broke. The police department never determined what the contents were, guessing they were either rotten fruit or it was a fecal waste pod from a space shuttle that had somehow orbited back into Earth's gravitational pull. It was never sent to any kind of lab for proper testing, merely incinerated with other disposed products after the case was closed.

Herbert, who had been listening intently as they all stopped on the second landing to hear the tale the detective shared, cocked his head to the side slightly, already putting pieces of the puzzle together. "So you think these things, these... slugs, came from that canister and one of them burst out, making a new home for itself in the young man and then... what? Why did he just die? Why did the rest of them just... melt?"

"That," Cameron began with a trademark grin, "is the million dollar question. Remember when you said something about bot flies last night in the car, Froggy? Well, that got me thinking about how all these bodies have been found and what we all saw last night when I blew Wroth's rotten head off."

Herbert's jaw dropped slightly in disbelief. "Wait, you don't think-"

"I don't think; I _know_ ," Ray cut in. "We lost one little rascal to those things tonight." He peered over to a solemn Chris before looking down and continuing, mimicking the young man's words to him from earlier in the night. "They get in through your mouth, and they lay eggs in your brain... and you walk around while they incubate. You walk around even if you're dead."

There was silence for a fleeting moment after that before Detective Cameron continued down the stairs and everyone followed him.

* * *

"Jesus! Does that relic even fire anymore?" Ray asked, getting his first real good look at Marston's cattleman revolver as the cowboy pulled it out of the paper bag where his belongings were stashed. "Piece looks like it was produced before my father was born!"

"Probably was," John laughed. "This here's one of the originals made in 1873, same year I was."

"Uh huh," Ray replied sounding less than enthused to become involved in a conversation revolving around whatever crazy story the three had come up with. "I, uh, I don't remember seeing any bullets in that evidence baggie, Butch. What the hell you using for ammo?"

"Nothing now," John answered very matter-of-factly, sighing quietly after his admission. "Used the last of my bullets trying to kill..." He trailed off for a moment, realizing that Spider did not know the horror that likely befell Tina and Ernie, and mentioning Freddy's name would have only hurt the young man while meaning absolutely nothing to the detective. "Tryin' to kill some fella who just wouldn't die." John tightened his revolver belt around his waist before slipping his knife into its holder.

Ray watched as the other men retrieve their belongings; Spider putting his studded wristband on while Herbert was busy fidgeting with the uncooperative collar of his blood-spattered, dirt-stained white lab coat. Chris, looking quite antsy and the visage of worry clearly growing on his face, merely shuffled from cardboard box to cardboard box, lifting the lids slightly to see what was in each. Ray passed a heavy breath through his nostrils, knowing that time was of the essence and he wasn't sure of how much they had. "Alright, Butch, help me with the flamethrower, alright? The rest of ya, get your crap and try to find some sort of heated weapon to kill those things with. I don't care if you have to fight 'em with a curling iron, just find something hot!"

"Wait!" Herbert called out as they men began to leave the room, causing both to turn slightly to look back at him. "Those things- heat kills them?"

"Yeah," the detective nodded. "At least according to Spanky over there." He raised his hand slightly and pointed to Chris.

Spider's eyes widened all at once, as if a brilliant idea had just popped into his head. "Hey, ya'll got any, like, Lysol or any kind of full spray cans?"

The detective merely shrugged before turning once again and leaving the room completely. "Check the janitor supply closet at the end of the hall. You might get lucky."

The punk followed the men out, asking Chris and Herbert to look through the bags to see if they could find any rubber bands or hair ties or lighters.

* * *

John lifted the flamethrower with his hands on either side of it, realizing that the thing was actually light enough to be carried with one hand if the person doing the lifting was strong enough. "What the hell did ya need my help with this for? Thing's nearly as light as a feather."

"What?!" Ray yelled from the other room, yet another cigarette dangling loosely from his lips as wisps of smoke slowly stemmed from the burning cherry. He had been surveying the room for the few items he wanted, taking each piece with brief scrutiny before nabbing the last one off the wall as he turned his attention back to the gunslinger.

The two men stared at each other for a moment, Ray looking at the flamethrower with an odd sense of amusement briefly written across his face. "No," he finally snapped himself out of his trance, removing his half-spent smoke and dropping it to the tiled floor, snubbing it out with his shoe a moment later. "No, I actually don't need your help carrying it, but I need everyone prepared. That's another reason I brought you back here- to give you a few things."

Muffled shouts caused both men to turn their heads, looking at the officer who was gagged and tied to a chair.

"Sorry about all this, Walt," Ray consoled, sounding far less empathetic than he should have for such a statement, as he sat his small stash of items down on the armory room's only clean desk.

Walter Staley, the officer confined to his desk chair with ropes and a few feet of duct tape spun around his head to cover his mouth, began thrashing around and continued to attempt yelling through his impromptu muzzle.

"Oh stop being such a baby, for chrissakes," the detective continued as John looked over the haul the man had brought out. "Someone will come down for something later and untie you..." Ray thought about his words for a moment, realizing he could very well be wrong with just how overlooked the armory was on most nights. Crestridge was normally a very quaint, quiet college town, and, if there was a ruckus, it usually wasn't anything more than officers could handle with their sidearms. More often than not, a flash of the nightstick would do just as good of a job of getting people back to their senses as pulling out a revolver. The sleepy town's police force seldom had use for the stockpile of weapons and such that the armory held, and thus the desk job was cake for anyone working it... as well as boring and lonely. "Either that or you'll have to wait until Bestsy comes in for the day shift."

The words did little to comfort Walt. They actually did the exact opposite, sending the man into yet another frenzy where he thrashed around in his seat while trying to maneuver the tape off his mouth.

Ray sighed and ignored the man, turning his attention back to the cowboy, who he found admiring the firearm that was laying in front of him, even slightly running his fingers over the grooved grip panel.

"Pretty little thing, isn't it?" Ray asked, cracking a small grin. After John nodded in complete silence, the detective further explained, "That's a Ruger P85. They're not even on the market yet, and we only have that beauty because we were chosen as a testing site. Restricted to use only in the firing range... til tonight, at least. Go ahead, pick it up."

John did as he was told, surprised as the light weight of the thing. He was used to much bulkier, heavier guns and the Ruger was a new, raw experience for him.

"That's not all I grabbed for ya," Ray chimed in, sounding somewhat pleased with himself and his haul. "We've got a shoulder holster; one of them new leather ones with a double magazine pouch, and last but not least, a coupla magazines, as well as one in the piece."

John looked almost lost in a trance as his eyes never veered away from the gun, but it wasn't admiration he was taken up by, but wrath. "Reminds me of the gun that Edgar Ross gave me after..." he said before trailing off, not a hint of his true emotions coming out in his voice until he mentioned Ross' name and a burning sting of regret and anger rushed from end to end of his body like water through a burst dam. "I shoulda killed that sonofabitch back in Blackwater when I had the chance."

His words did not go unnoticed by the detective, but the man chose to willfully ignore them all the same. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he took the gun from John's grip and began to show him the various mechanisms. "You ever used something that was made within the last twenty years or are you really an antique kind of guy?"

"I, um..." John stammered, not exactly sure of what kind of answer the man was expecting.

"Need a little tutorial?" Cameron finished with the answer he was expecting. "Alright, fine, but this is gonna be a quick and dirty session."

"Appreciate it," John replied before giving the detective his full attention.

"First and foremost, this is the safety. Have it this way and you're not gonna fire shit. Switch it this way," Cameron noted, flicking the safety awkwardly with his thumb, "and you're good to go. It's clunky as hell, even with large hands, but that's about the only downfall I can see in this gun. Now, you've also got a magazine latch, and I swear, in the heat of the moment, it's too damn easy to hit that lock and lose your clip, so..."

* * *

Herbert sighed and dropped yet another paper bag that contained nothing of interest to him while Chris tore open another sack in hopes of finding the elusive item that Spider had requested. The two had rummaged through over ten bags and, while there was either a Zippo or Bic lighter in almost every bag, an elastic was a rather rare find. The best either of them had come across was a stretched-out scrunchie, and Herbert had somehow doubted that was what Spider was looking for.

"You know," the doctor began, fidgeting with his glasses momentarily, "we could always just head over to the other side of the room and start tearing those evidence bags open. Sure, we'd probably ruin a couple murder cases, but there has to be a few rubber bands holding things together in some of those."

Chris looked at him with wide-eyed disbelief; the doctor's morbid, quirky sense of humor clearly flying right over the young man's head.

"I was kidding," Herbert admitted in a murmur, pained to declare his intention as, to him, it meant the situation instantly became embarrassing. It was another sore reminder that he was an awkward person, that conversation and bonding did not come easily to him unless he found the right person, that engaging was, mostly, useless and trivial. Still, there was something the detective had mentioned that Herbert was very curious about. "Your friend, the one who... well, you know; was he how you found out heat kills those things?"

Chris nodded in reply, keeping quiet for a moment before verbally confirming. "He, uh, he killed one. Lit a match and set it on fire..."

Herbert looked on, not sure if that was where the story ended

"And then... and then, when he realized one was inside him and he was dead, he went down to the furnace room in the college's basement and let them... hatch."

Hatch. The word to describe what happened to those infected with the parasitic lifeforms had never crossed Herbert's mind before that moment, but it struck him because it fit. It fit perfectly.

"It was so hot in there. God was it hot, but I don't even think J.C. could feel the heat, you know?" Chris continued, asking the rhetorical question to no-one in particular as he stared on passed Herbert, into the far end of the room. Suddenly, his stare went right back to the doctor's eyes, and there was a pain in them that Herbert couldn't fully understand.

"He walked! He said that he walked- all by himself; no crutches. But J.C... J.C. can't do that, he's a-" A quick, frustrated look of understanding suddenly flashed across his face as he spoke, causing his expression to sour as he shook his head. " _Was_. J.C. was a paraplegic. There was no way he could walk without his crutches. He didn't have a pulse... or a heartbeat, but he walked without his crutches. He walked to the furnace room and..."

Tears were streaming down Chris' face as he spoke of his late friend, the hurt and vulnerability of the situation all too real for the doctor.

"Come on," Herbert said, motioning for the young man to follow him, but in no way intending to provide any sort of moral support him. "Let's go see what the others are up to."

Chris nodded, appearing quite embarrassed as he wiped tears from his face and attempted to stem his whole episode through slow, hitched breaths.

* * *

Spider had a slight strut to his step as he neared the armory, the ever-growing voice of Detective Cameron not truly registering in the young man's ears as he rhythmically snapped his fingers and hummed along to the song that was playing in his head. The Cramps had been a favorite band of his since he first heard them live in New York two years ago, and his passion for the punk-rockabilly troupe was recently reignited when he had obtained their live album, _Smell of Female_ , for a fantastic five-finger discount. While he could vividly remember the first few songs from the concert itself, the others on the album were fairly fuzzy to him, but he had smoked his fair share of weed that night. His favorite track off the album, "Surfin' Dead", was one of those he was unfamiliar with, but the song had an amazing sound and lead singer Lux Interior's use of overdubs complimented the track quite nicely. The thought of, perhaps, thrumming another song, one that didn't involve the word 'dead' or 'brains', never even crossed his mind as he quietly mouthed the end lyrics.

"There's nothing at the movie show when you're dead," Spider softly crooned as he strolled through the door of the caged weapon center, his horrible crescendo perfectly showcasing why he was never meant to be a singer.

A desperate Walt once again wriggled in his chair and tried his hardest to shout subdued words to garner the attention, and maybe sensibility, of the quickly-passing punk, but the young man paid him no mind as he walked by.

"...and that's pretty much it," Ray concluded, turning slightly to see Spider approaching, but quickly shifting his attention back to John. He pushed the magazine back into place. "Each mag holds fifteen rounds, so your gonna have forty-five on you in total. Even if you're a bad shot, that's a lot of ammo to miss with."

John snorted, fussing with the left strap of the gun holster, which had twisted itself countless times as he fit the thing onto his frame. "A bad shot I am not, mister," the cowboy assured with a certain sense of cockiness to his words. "Hell, I'm even half-blind in my left eye and most who've seen me shoot and lived to tell about it would say I'm quite the deadeye."

"What're you old-timers up to? Playin' dress up or some shit?" Spider questioned, jutting out his chin as he spoke and coming to a stop a foot from the men. He stood, hands on his hips, with a look of honest curiosity written on his face. The sight of his pockets bulging, an air-freshener spray can and bottle of WD-40 in one and a large roll of duct tape in the other, somehow made his whole presence comical.

Ray took his turn snorting out a laugh before he replied. "Just teaching Butch the finer points of his new play toy."

Spider's eyes lit up all at once, as if he was just told something quite pleasing. "The gun? That's sick, man! Do I get one?"

"No!" both John and Ray spat out in unison.

John sounded quite absolute and parental in his reply, but he couldn't help it. Spider's giddy response to seeing a gun, a tool of death and harm, instantly made John think of the first time Jack saw a gun and viewed it as nothing more than a toy; a toy he wanted to play with. He had yelled the same two-letter word at his son when he was foolish enough to ask if he could have a gun without first comprehending what having a gun actually meant. Ray, on the other hand, found the request comical and outlandish, though his laid-back dismissal came off as no less insulting in its delivery.

Spider, looking instantly dejected, scoffed and mirthlessly responded, "You two are a buncha assholes..."

After a passing moment, he voiced a concern that had been growing in his head ever since he went to fetch his own supplies. "Ya know, man, I'd like to know how we're s'posed to be any better off helping you than we were with our asses in that cell. I mean, this is aidin' and abettin', you know that right? How the hell you gonna keep us outta the pokey, especially after this..." Using his thumb as a pointer, he motioned behind him, towards Walt, as he spoke. "...and get yourself some sorta get-outta-jail-free card, too?"

The smile on the detective's face never wavered. "Are you kidding? You guys will be heroes after this. All's forgiven for heroes, right? Hell, they'll probably give you the key to the city when we're done."

Spider could hear the sarcasm in Ray's words and rolled his eyes appropriately at them, rationalizing that what happened to them after they cleared out the slugs wasn't Ray's concern. "Heroes get guns, man."

Before the punk can further plead (or harm) his case, Herbert and Chris made their presence known, stopping in the doorway with the doctor loudly clearing his throat to gain everyone's attention.

"Are we done? Ready to go?" Both his choice of words and crossed-arm stance had a vibe of impatience about them, though his face read that he was more distressed than anything. Chris was standing just behind him, the same lost trance smeared across his face from earlier, only this time his eyes were visibly red and the skin around them puffy from crying.

The detective looked over to John and received a simple nod in return. "Yeah, Froggy; we're ready to go."

"Wait, hold on," Spider asserted immediately, turning to face the two men in the doorway. "You guys find those things I asked you to?"

"Ah." Herbert's face lit up for a minute and he dug into the sagging pockets of his lab coat and pulled out two fistfuls of assorted lighters. "Will these do?"

"Hell yeah," Spider said with a smile returning to his face, reaching forward to take the items.

"We couldn't find any kind of elastics though," the doctor ruefully added as he passed the lighters on.

Spider looked at the loot in his hands, sifting out the zippo lighters and dropping them onto the counter next to him. "I need something rubbery, man, or else this ain't gonna work."

Ray rolled his eyes and sighed quietly, reaching for the desk drawer that Walt was likely going to spend the rest of the night in front of before their impromptu change of plans. "Here," he called out, waiting for Spider to turn his attention to him. Once he did, the detective tossed an open bag of rubber bands at him, assorted sizes and colors bouncing around in the thin plastic sac. "Now don't go sayin' I never did anything for ya."

"Thanks," Spider replied flatly, stuffing three lighters into the bag of elastics. "Now I'll be able to make myself a rubber band gun with my hand and hold off those slugs. Yeah, that oughta fuckin' do it..."

Ray released a short laugh at the young man's deadpan humor, before Herbert chirped up again.

"Detective, do you think you could grab one of those gas masks back there for each of us?" His request was met with a look of confusion from the officer, but he quickly justified his reasoning. "Those things enter through the mouth, right? Well, they are likely strong enough to force their way through the masks if they hit them, if they could damage their canister like you said they did, but they may not even lunge for our mouths if they can't _see_ them. It's worth a shot, at least."

Ray smiled, nodding his head at the doctor's logic. "Something told me you had brains worth protectin', Froggy." He made his way back to the armory as Spider jeered behind him.

"Brains? You named him after a character that was cross-eyed and talked like he had throat cancer!"

"Yeah, well, they both wear glasses, Buckwheat. I didn't really have a lot to go on. Hey Spanky," he called from the other room, "you wanna show the rest of the gang where the car is and throw the flamethrower in the trunk? I'm sure the doctor will be more than happy to get his bag of goodies back in his hands." He tossed the melancholy college student his keys after his request was met with a nod. "I'll be out in a minute."

The others left while Ray procured the masks. Before he left the area though, he stopped by the other officer. "Walt," he began, placing a hand on the man's shoulder, almost in a comforting way. "You know, the only constant in my life over the past few years has been turning down your weekly poker night invites with the other boys. I, uh... well, I hope this doesn't change things."

Walt glared at Ray from his chair; a full-on look of hatred in his eyes. He yelled something too muffled to be understood, but the detective got the gist of it. A smug smile lined Ray's lips and he patted Walt's shoulder before leaving the room to follow the others. He absolutely _despised_ being invited to poker night every week.

* * *

As the group made their way from one location to another, the detective divulged the plan he had quickly come up with in his head. There would split into two crews; John and Herbert would hit the main fraternity and the other three would head to the main sorority on the campus, clearing out any slugs or infested bodies they came across and getting everyone they could to safety before reconvening at the university commons where they would then head to the location where the Fall Formal was being held.

Aside from the brief discussion of their plan, which no one objected to, the car ride was rather quiet. The only sound to be heard was duct tape ripping as Spider worked on something in his spot between Herbert and John in the backseat of Ray's Fordor.

"What the fuck?" Spider questioned in a tone loud enough to garner the attention of his seatmates, but quiet enough not to drift to the front of the car.

"What?" John asked in his gritty voice. "What's wrong?"

"Do you need me to redress it?" Herbert asked, already beginning to open his medicine bag when he noticed that the young man had made a mess of the bandage covering his cut; duct tape stuck to the gauze fabric and pulling it in every direction.

Spider shook his head, looking at his hand in awe. "No, man, it's... it's gone."

"What's gone?"

"The cut!"

"What?!" Herbert grabbed the young man's hand and pulled it closer for examination, The cut that had slashed across Spider's palm was indeed gone. Not merely healed, but vanished as if it had never been there. No scar, no groove, just smooth skin. Shocked, the doctor let go and hastily checked his own cut. It, too, was gone. The underside of his forefinger looked perfectly fine.

"What in the hell is wrong with you two?"

"Check your cut, John," Herbert replied in a quiet voice, not budging his sights from his own hand. "The one from the mask."

John did as he was told, mouthing 'sonuvabitch' as he found he was searching for a wound that was no longer there.

There was a loud, obvious sigh released from the front of the Fordor. "What're you ladies yappin' about back there?" Detective Cameron questioned.

Simultaneously, both John and Herbert answered the man, blurting out the same demand. "Check your cut."

Spider, quickly putting two and two together, shot forward in his seat, spilling the contents in his lap to the floor. "What the fuck you mean 'check your cut'?! Was he cut by the damn mask, too?! You motha-fuckas got too many secrets you keep droppin' on me."

His outburst was ignored.

While it appeared as if Chris was trying to shrink into the passenger seat, clearly at a loss as to what was going on, Ray took advantage of the rear-view mirror, throwing a cautious glance at the men through it before complying with their request.

"What is this shit?" the detective demanded a moment later, turning his hand over and over but finding nothing. "That cut bled like a stuck pig and now it's gone?"

Nobody had an answer to their questions and, after their initial outbursts, no one sought one again, either.

The punk released a huff of discontent from the backseat and shook his head, bending forward to pick up his dropped supplies. Herbert watched the young man for a moment, paying attention to his actions for the first time since entering the car, before finally growing curious enough to inquire about what he was doing.

"Makin' us our own damn flamethrowers," Spider announced, his trademark tone of impatient defiance ever-present.

" _Our?_ " the doctor continued to question, a look of piqued interest taking over his features.

Shrugging, the youth casually replied while redirecting most of his focus to the items in his lap. "Yeah. John's got a gun, the badge has a gun, Chris has a big-ass flamethrower and whadda we got?" Only allowing the question to go unanswered for a moment, Spider quickly continued, "Nothin'!"

The loud, irritating sound of duct tape being stretched and torn once again rang in everyone's ears as the work resumed.

"Nothin' til now."

* * *

The Fordor slowed to a stop in front of the fraternity, the Beta Epsilon building, less than ten minutes after the drive had started. Ray and Chris stayed in their seats as the car idled, while John began to examine the building and Spider ushered Herbert to a square of grass next to the road.

"Whole thing's pretty simple, man," Spider exclaimed, an undeniable smile growing on his face. "Once you get the lighter goin', use that extra bit of rubber band wrapped around the can to hold the fork down so you keep the valve open for gas. Slide the rubber band off to stop it when your done though. Probably won't run outta butane, but if you get distracted and hold the can in a way where the flame can reach it and heat the thing up, you can kiss your hand, and maybe your life, goodbye."

Herbert's face changed for a moment as he contemplated telling the younger man that he was well aware of the dangers of heating up a pressurized tube when there were trapped gases inside of it, but since the man was helping him, he thought better of it and kept his mouth shut.

"That's why I taped the lighter to the can the long-way, so the flame is as far away as you can get it. It ain't gonna be nearly as impressive or powerful as that thing in the trunk, but it sure as shit is better than nothin'."

"Hey kid," the detective called out, continuing to roll down his window, "all that barking and no bite? Thrill me."

Spider's smile grew as he set his contraption up and shot a one-foot flame from it.

"Not bad, Buckwheat," Cameron once again commentated. "Not bad at all."

"So how, exactly, did you learn all of this?" Herbert asked with an air of skepticism and judgement about him. He was thoroughly impressed, but nothing the youth had done in his presence up to that point had indicated he was smarter than he looked.

Spider's smile faltered at the question, but only slightly. "I, uh... I grew up in a rough neighborhood when I was a kid. Learned a few bad habits and shady pieces of street knowledge as a result. You'd be surprised what you need a flamethrower in the hood for."

With the answer, Herbert almost felt ashamed for asking. Almost. He, too, had had... not the easiest of childhoods, but for an entirely different reason. If he was being honest with himself, Herbert was impressed, and grateful... and that was where the awkwardness came in. Sincerely saying things like 'thank you' and showing gratitude did not come easy for the man, they truly felt like a form of groveling to him. Nonetheless he felt like he was in a small debt to Spider for what the man had made for him with no prompting of any sort. He could have just as easily made only one and silently told Herbert to go screw himself, but he didn't.

"Thank you, Spider. Really. I appreciate you making something for the both of us."

Spider modestly chuckled, handing his companion the transformed can of WD-40. "No sweat, man. Meet back at the commons soon. You remember how to get there?"

"Keep walking south," Herbert said, pointing ahead of him. "I can just see the top of the building from here."

He watched Spider give a small wave and get back into the Fordor before he turned around and looked for John, holding his mini-flamethrower tight in one hand while the handle of his medicine bag was gripped just as tightly in the other, a gas mask sticking halfway out of the top through the unsecured opening.


	17. The horror at Beta Epsilon

"John! John, where are you?" Herbert yelled as loudly as he could while trying to keep his voice just above a whisper. It was an effort that sounded more chastising than anything, and in a sense it was. Like a child, John had wandered off in a new place where danger could be around any corner and just the act alone irritated Herbert with its perceived insolence. "Joh-"

"Over here," the cowboy's reply interrupted, delivered in a tone so laid-back and controlled that it could have made the doctor puke in that instant. John walked into view from the side of the house, still arching his head upwards to observe the second floor of the building. One particular window had caught his attention; a soothing, soft blue light pulsated from the pane-covered opening. "What's making that light, West? Those slug things glow?"

"Even if they did, I highly doubt they would glow blue," Herbert scoffed, craning his head back slightly to better view what his partner was enamored with. After a moment, he sighed and dismissed the light altogether. "It's probably a lava lamp or a neon sign. More likely the latter; frat idiots hang them everywhere."

"What's a 'lava lamp'?" John questioned, and the doctor could almost  _hear_  the look of confusion and intrigue forming.

"Nothing." There was audible irritation in Herbert's quick brush-off. "Come on, John, let's get this over with and meet back with the others."

As they approached the front entrance, John's eyes caught sight of something that once again piqued his curiosity. "What're those?" He pointed to a cluster of metal frames with wheels attached to them, taking a few more steps for a closer examination.

Herbert followed and looked to where the man was pointing, releasing a snort before replying condescendingly. "Those are bicycles, John. You've never seen a bike before?"

"Well... no, not in person," he admitted, remembering seeing a similar looking construct in advertisements at local shops from his time. They always seemed to read 'Coming Soon', but they never did seem to arrive. "They faster than a horse?"

"God no," Herbert laughed. "At least not overall. Unless you have an old, sick horse or your a professional cyclist. A cyclist is what we call anyone who rides a bike. You want to get anywhere fast in this day and age you use a car, John. You wanna get somewhere faster you take an airplane."

The doctor immediately sighed, guessing what John's next question was going to be before he even asked it.

"What's an 'airplane'?"

Frustrated with the childish questions, Herbert let his head drop somewhat and closed his eyes. He pushed up his glasses with his thumb and index finger and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Complicated. Something that is big and complicated and flies through the air carrying hundreds of people on it from one place to the next in a relatively short time-span because it does not have to navigate rough terrain or go around mountains or rivers... or even oceans. It just goes over everything. Think of it like a bird, only faster and bigger."

"Like an eagle?"

"Yes, sure, like an eagle. Can we just- can we just go in now, John?" Herbert stammered in answer, his impatience growing rapidly.

John released a small laugh and shrugged his shoulders and, with his action, the two proceeded forward. Again they stopped, only a few steps from the entrance, as they leered suspiciously at the open double-doorway. There were small drops of fresh blood creating a breadcrumb-like trail from the concrete slabs of the front pathway, up the two steps and all the way into the front foyer from what the men could tell. What they couldn't tell, however, was if the blood was leading away from the building or into it.

"Did you... see anything moving around in there when you were checking out the house, John?" Herbert asked, a hint of apprehension quite apparent in his voice.

The cowboy shook his head and released a single 'hmm-mmm' before clarifying his answer. "Doesn't look like there's a soul in there aside from that glow. Then again, only room that seems to have a light on is that one." He pointed to the windows on the left side of the doors. There were two windows side by side, while the lower section was covered by thick curtains, the upper parts were not, with one side even protruding outward, showing it was opened to allow fresh air in. The rest of the house was indeed dark, lights seemingly off all over the rest of the place, and the open window lead Herbert to believe that the doors should have been closed as well.

"Even if everyone left to go to the dance, I still don't have a great feeling about this," the doctor admitted aloud, mostly to himself.

"Ya know," John said, extracting his newly-acquired Ruger P85 from its holster, "I helped a man try to fly once." He began to walk forward, hoping Herbert would follow.

Luckily, the doctor did, though appearing fairly uneasy. "What did you do? Throw him off a cliff, hmm?"

"Not exactly," John chuckled.

The two ventured into the house, making sure to avoid the abundance of blood drops in their path.

"The gentleman, a one Charles Kinnear if I rightly recall, had me fetch him a batch of supplies so he could make his own adhesive to finish his flying rig."

As he spoke, talking slowly and with numerous pauses to stretch the tale out, the duo walked into the bar area of the frat. Though not visible from the outside, the room was lit up as well, though just barely, relying solely on neon signs and colored lights to illuminate it. Alongside the dim lighting, various college banners and crests lined the walls of the room, all representing the Bulldogs, a moniker for the university's various athletic teams. John, seemingly smitten once more by the brightly glowing, electrified glass tubes, absentmindedly reached his hand up to the vivid blue 'BAR' sign as he finished his sentence.

"Don't touch that!" Herbert demanded through a hiss, trying to keep his voice to a minimum in case they were not alone in the house. Though he couldn't be sure because of how dark the house was, the doctor did not notice any further spots of blood. Regardless, his sixth sense was keeping him on his toes. "You ever touch a hot iron branding a horse?" When the gunslinger turned to look at him he jutted his chin towards the lit-up sign. "Same basic idea as far as pain and repercussions goes."

John looked slightly disappointed, but he heeded Herbert's advice and the two left the room after affirming there wasn't anything, or anyone, of interest in it.

As they roamed down the hallway again, the weak light dimming more with every step, Herbert's curiosity got the better of him.

"So, did this Charles ever get to fly?"

"Oh he sure did," John confirmed. "Poor bastard flew straight down to his death. Sick as it may be, that was why I laughed when you asked if I threw him off a cliff. I didn't have to- he just jumped offa one and hovered for a short while before his rig went nose-down towards the ground. Had a good fall, he did; one that he never got up from."

Herbert winced slightly, wondering if there were many people John ran into who didn't end up dying of unnatural causes in some way. "Charming. You know, John, you may find this fascinating- the signs, the lights, the bikes, and I get it- it's all new to you... but it isn't to me. As a matter-of-fact, it's all Greek to me." He stopped momentarily to snicker at his own joke, indifferent to whether John would get it or not. "I've always hated fraternities... and sororities. I was in and out of colleges so much that I really got to see how horrible the institutions on campus really were, how distracting they could be... and how they really only helped the bullies continue to be bullies. Why I-"

Before he could continue, the men saw something skitter across the floor, the lighting too weak and the object too fast to be anything more than a blur to them. An odd, high-pitched cry seemed to escape the thing as it scurried by.

"Masks! Now!" Herbert yelled into the encroaching darkness, lifting his medicine bag up to retrieve the headgear.

After swinging his head from side to side and realizing that his already-limited line of sight was even more restricted thanks to the transparent, triangular eye pieces in the mask, John asked, "How the hell do you see outta these things?"

"What?" Herbert yelled back, fretting with the filtering canister sitting on the back of his neck. "You have to talk louder, John!" During their back and forth, the doctor was almost sure he has heard a door knob turning frantically, but the sound stopped after he spoke.

The cowboy, fully unaware of exactly how to wear the mask, had simply let his canister dangle in front of his neck, almost like a wattle hanging from under a turkey's beak. "Never you mind, West," he shouted back, the heightened volume of his voice causing it to sound more hoarse. Not willing to shoot blindly at such a fast, small target, he left his pistol holstered after he had put it away to don his new accessory. Instead, he proceeded to awkwardly fit his Cattleman hat atop his head, stubbornly refusing to simply carry the accessory as he had the mask.

Stifling a laugh from his companion's odd appearance, Herbert pointed to the end of the hall, the room it led to looked large from where they were standing. "I think it went over there."

Upon entering the dining room, John heard a slight shuffle from beside him and was immediately grabbed by a strong set of hands that instantly tried to topple him over. Fighting against the force, the cowboy struggled with his assailant, hitting a rocker light switch as they bounced off a wall and flooding half of the over-sized room with a welcomed light. Still interlocked with arms grabbing onto one another's clothing, John and his attacker stumbled to the lit portion of the room. In the light, it was quite apparent that the cowboy's nemesis was an infected fraternity brother. A good section of the walking corpse's scalp was missing, the wound still fresh enough to be bleeding. There's also a large wound in his side, the damage so intense and deep that, along with most of his lower ribs protruding from his body, part of the thing's transverse colon and small intestine were dangling from the open cavity.

Finally being backed into a chair and tripping over it, John went spilling onto his back, pulling the dead, tux-wearing college student on top of him. The host immediately heaved a slug from its mouth, dropping the creature right on top of John's mask. It was quickly followed by a second, and then a third. The man almost seemed as if he was belching with each upheaval and every time one of the parasites hit the mask it made an unsettling wet 'splat' sound before it slithered off the protective covering, each whirring with bizarre, maddened sounds as they searched for an opening to enter.

"West!" John yelled, simultaneously pushing the body up enough for its attempted swipes to just barely miss him and moving one of his hands to the man's neck and squeezing as hard as he could, trying to stop any more of the things from escaping. It became immediately apparent that his attempt was in vain, as the slugs were not crawling up from the throat, but rather down from a hole in the roof of the mouth. The gunslinger turned his head to the side, eyes frantically scanning the room for any sign of the doctor. When he found him, he was somewhat vexed that the man was in the exact same spot that he was when John was attacked, seemingly frozen in place. His irritation was short-lived, though, as he saw another man, blood smeared across part of his face, slowly limping up behind West, one arm outstretched towards the doctor while the other was steadying the man from falling into the wall. "West!" John yelled again, trying with all his might to make his shout as loud as he could make it. Another slug escaped onto him, worming its way across his ear and causing John to impulsively shake his head, knocking his mask halfway off and exposing his mouth while also obscuring his vision.

John desperately wanted to fix his mask, but he didn't dare take his hands off the the man atop him, as he could easily tell that he would lose his edge with one hand alone, even if removing the extra force for only a moment. Left with no other options, John shook his head again, quite furiously, and the mask slid the rest of the way off, flopping onto its side next to his head. The sight that greeted his eyes was not a welcomed one.

"Aw, shit!" John yelled, surprised to see another slug about to dart from the corpse's mouth directly into his. The thing shot forth, John scrunched up his face in a hopeless attempt to stop the creature from getting what it wanted. A blur of black flew in front of John's eyes just as he was sure it was all over and his brains were, once again, on the verge of being a main course. The black object connected first with the slug, causing it to fold in on itself and explode from the pressure, then smashed the remains of the brain-eater into the face of its undead host. The blur was Herbert's shoe; the doctor had made an attempt to kick the living dead in the head to get it off of his companion and, while it was successful, it was also clumsy.

The doctor failed to stop, or even slow, his movement when he went for the kick, and his other foot ended up catching under John's arm and abruptly snagging his forward momentum, causing Herbert to tumble over both bodies. An indescribable whimper escaped him as he floundered onto his stomach, his medicine bag spewing forth its contents in front of him. Quickly, he crawled within reach of the rudimentary flamethrower and turned onto his backside after he reached it. As he fumbled to try to setup the simple device, the fallen cadaver began to push itself up, causing Herbert to panic further.

Before it could get more than five inches from the floor, John stamped his boot right into the man's back, causing him to smash his face into the floorboards with a 'crunch' sound as his nose was flattened beneath the weight. The second dead college student, the one that had been slinking towards Herbert before he had come to John's rescue, bunglingly latched onto the cowboy's shoulder and was met with a punch to the face straightaway, sending it onto its back. After successfully equipping his mask again, John pointed the sight of the P85 at the back of the first dead man's head, somewhat struggling to keep him down while Herbert readied his weapon. A loud 'bang' rang out as John pulled the trigger and watched his aggressor's skull split in two, releasing a ball of slugs that hastily begin to disperse. It was less than a second later that flames began to engulf the escaping creatures, thwarting any attempt for them to slither away at their uncanny speed.

Slightly lost in disappointment at the puny gunshot sound discharged from the P85 in comparison to his 1911, John did not realize that his pant leg and lower flap of his duster coat was on fire until Herbert stopped spraying flames from his incendiary device. A strained, harsh yelp escaped Marston as he lifted his leg, hopping on the other, and smashed at his ankle until the flame was extinguished, the small blaze on his jacket dying out in the process.

"Chrissakes, West!" John yelled, smashing the butt of his pistol into the face of the second corpse as it got to its feet, once again sending it to the floor before the gunslinger blew a hole in its head as well.

Rattled and slightly astonished that there was another body, Herbert pressed down on the nozzle of the WD-40 can again, stumbling forward and spewing forth flame onto the hatching critters before they could get anywhere.

John paced in a circle, visibly shaken and upset as two burning bodies smoldered with fading flames around him. "What the hell is wrong with you? You don't just save a man's life and then try to set 'em on fire. It ain't proper!"

A smoke detector suddenly sounded with a series of fast-paced beeps, the rising fumes setting it off, and Herbert only began to process the thought of telling John to make it stop before the gunslinger shot the thing to pieces, quieting it instantly.

"I didn't  _try_  to set you on fire, John!" Herbert protested, fighting to control his breathing and slow his heart rate. "And I'm sorry, but I've never handled a shooting flame before or had to kill parasitic organisms that breed and feed on a host's brain! Have you?!"

"Well... no," John admitted, his tone softening as he realized his partner had a point and he had made mistakes in past, spur-of-the-moment stressful situations as well. "But I still wouldn't-uh set ya on fire!"

"John!" Herbert shouted in a heightened, alert inflection. "We've got bigger problems than me accidentally setting you on fire!"

As the doctor yelled, John could see figures moving on both sides of his peripheral vision, as well as two more of the undead coming right for them. "Back to back, West, now! We turn in a circle; I shoot, you burn."

Without the need for further orders to be shouted at him, Herbert joined the gunslinger back-to-back, dousing everything with fire while John loaded the corpses with lead.

A mob of six tux-covered, burning bodies fell to the floor in crumpled heaps while spurts of blood flew in every direction and squirming slugs sizzled and popped inside their subservients' craniums.

The two men continued to stand with backs to one another, the large room somewhat filling with smoke as searing hair and flesh slowly dwindled and lost heat. Both were breathing heavily, looking for any further signs of life, slithering or otherwise.

"You think... we got 'em all?"John asked, almost panting the words out.

Herbert shook his head, an action that couldn't have been seen by the man it was intended for. "The ones that hit your mask... they went everywhere!"

"Hmph," John grunted, the noise barely audible to anyone but himself. "They're too fast, West; how the hell are we supposed to kill them?"

Confused by how the task suddenly fell on  _his_  shoulders, the doctor responded in an annoyed tone, stopping in his efforts to collect his scattered goods to do so, "Why am  _I_  the one who..." He stopped talking midway through his words as a chunk of uneaten gray matter slid from the cracked skull of one of the unfortunate college students. An idea formed in his mind almost instantly; one that would take care of their straggler problem and net him specimens to experiment on as well.

"John, go around the house and make sure there aren't anymore... infected. If there are, bring them here, but I don't think you'll run into any. The parasite would likely have driven them to us by now as new hosts. Better safe than sorry, though; I'll work on a trap for the remaining molluscs."

"So long as you have a plan, West," John agreed, removing his mask before bending to snatch a handkerchief from the pocket of one of the downed bodies and using it to first clean the inside of the lenses from their fog buildup, and then the outside of the mask, which was coated with spatters of blood, bits of bone and god knew what else. Herbert followed suit and, while they stood in silence, the only sound penetrating the calm being the occasional squeak from a cleaned lens, John had half a mind to ask the doctor what a 'mollusc' was... but a bigger part of him was simply done being inquiring for the day.

As the two separated, Herbert found he had to swallow yet another laugh as John made a stop at the hallway entrance to grab his hat and fidget with its positioning before disappearing into the darkness of the house, hugging close to a wall as stealthily as he could. West made the same cautious movement as he went in the opposite direction, finding the kitchen area attached to the other side of the dining room. Luckily, the ceiling was high enough to contain all of the smoke while only letting a small portion of it escape to other rooms; not nearly enough to set off any other smoke detectors.

The doctor began rummaging immediately, opening drawers and quickly scouring through neat, orderly collections of silverware, cooking utensils and storage tubs. Herbert scoffed at the realization that this particular fraternity likely had its own chef when he considered how clean and immaculate the kitchen area looked in comparison to the rest of the house. The fact that it also housed a host of fancy kitchen items and trinkets usually praised and adorned by profession cooks only strengthened his opinion. He finally found what he was looking for in a utility drawer seemingly reserved for pasta utensils. Pushing away the ladles, spoons, strainers and tongs, Herbert latched onto a long-handled, metallic pasta fork. He held it up like he had just unearthed a divine treasure; glints of light from the dining room even bouncing off the shiny, round tines. While the doctor usually wasn't one to shy away from getting his hands dirty... and bloody, this was a special case. Whatever brain matter was left in the deceased fraternity brothers was vital to attracting the loose creatures in the house, but he had no idea what the tissue may be coated in, and he really didn't want to find out the hard way.

After placing the kitchen tool into his open medicine bag, he began searching the cupboards for his next desired item; a suitable container. It didn't take more than a moment of exploration for him to find a perfect capsule. The thing almost jumped out at him, really; a stainless steel thermos tumbled from the shelf as he opened the door. There was a horrible clatter as it collided first with the counter and ultimately spilled to the floor, spinning and bouncing along the way. Herbert winced in anticipation, fully expecting to see John bounding around the corner at any moment, or perhaps something worse, but nothing came as he slowly, cautiously picked up the thermos. Breathing a relieved sigh, the doctor took his finds back to the dining room and kneeled next to the closest body, readying himself to scoop out charred, partially eaten gray matter. Before he could even begin, a loud, pained shout echoed into the room from down the hall and Herbert dropped both objects as panic entered his chest. He reignited his flamethrower before stepping into the dark hallway...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun note: the chapter title was inspired by R.L. Stein (The Horror at Camp Jellyjam), not H.P. Lovecraft (The Horror at Red Hook).


	18. Good news and bad news

 

The car ride was rather silent after John and Herbert had been dropped off. From his much more spacious spot in the emptied backseat, Spider debated trying to start a conversation. The quiet almost killing him; it wasn't comfortable and sure as shit wasn't golden as far as he was concerned. He could tell just by Detective Cameron's hard-line, determined stare out of the front windshield that the man was not in a talkative mood. The look was so convincing that the young man guessed the officer was likely  _never_  in a talkative mood. Chris, still sitting shotgun, looked utterly depressed and almost defeated. He hadn't even shown any interest in checking out how the flame-thrower functioned when Herbert was receiving his brief demonstration. Surprisingly, before the young punk could even formulate a weak attempt at conversation in his head, another occupant of the vehicle spoke up.

"You look like you're about to shit a brick back there, Buckwheat," Ray deadpanned, the continued lack of spirit in his words still stupefying the young man.

Spider blew out a contemptuous 'pfft!' before earnestly replying. "Man, I just ain't all that excited to be chasin' no damn brain-eatin' bugs, even if we are armed to the teeth here." He looked around for a moment, even lifting himself up in his seat slightly to get a better view into the front of the car. "You got any more weapons in this clunker 'sides what we got? Like, maybe a baton or somethin'? I know you cops just looove strokin' your sticks."

Instantly, astoundingly, an honest-to-god shit-eating grin grew on Ray's face and a few short chuckles vibrated through his body. It wasn't forced, it wasn't satirical, it was just... real.

"This car ain't no clunker, kid; it's a 1950 Fordor. Custom, might I add. Not one damn scratch, the flathead V8 still purrs like a kitten and it enjoys long walks on the beach." The detective glanced into the rear-view mirror to catch Spider begin to smile, and the expression once again found a home on Ray as well. "Truth be told, this car's about the only thing I care about anymore. It may be a mess on the inside, but I've made damn sure the outside looks as new and shiny as the day it rolled off the lot."

There were a few beats of silence as Ray contemplated what else the younger man had said. Making sure the road was clear, he peered back up into the rear-view. "What're you so worried for, anyway? The doc said the three of you faced these things before. The university, a funeral home and some warehouse sound about right?"

Spider sighed and shook his head. "Look man, I don't know nothin' about no damn university, aside from the one we're around now, but the things we were up against at that funeral home- the corpses... they wanted to eat our brains, no breed in 'em. This... this ain't like Louisville at all."

The detective squinted for a moment, a sole laugh escaped him. "Louisville? You still trying to sell me that crap? You can drop the act; I don't care what the three of you were-"

"Oh Jesus!"

Chris' sharp outcry of surprise made Ray jam his foot on the brake pedal and jolt the car to a stop, tossing those inside forward slightly. Spider scooted to the middle of the backseat, a mound of clutter shifting under his feet as he did so. Even though they were a good distance away, the sight in front of the men caused all three of them to lean forward in astonishment as smoke plumed from the remains of an overturned bus at the opposite end of the street.

"What the hell happened?" Spider asked after a few moments of silent gawking, voicing the thoughts of the other men.

"That..." Cameron started, trailing off for a moment as he released the brake pedal and allowed the car to slowly roll forward. "...is a damn good question, Buckwheat. A damn good one."

The trio rolled passed the accident less than a minute later, each taking their time to examine the scene and areas around it in silence. The collision looked to have involved two vehicles, as there was a yellow truck with a modified bed folded up like an accordion alongside the overturned bus. What truly alarmed the men wasn't the shards of glass littering the street nor the chunks of twisted metal everywhere... it was the blood. There were pools upon pools of the crimson liquid and their clusters multiplied the closer the car moved towards the wreck. Even more alarming were the bloody drag marks and footprints leading  _away_  from the scene in all directions.

"We gotta get to the Kappa Delta Sigma house- now!" Chris demanded, looking at the detective as he yelled.

With merely a nod of his head, Cameron planted his foot on the accelerator and the Ford Custom's old engine roared as the vehicle shot forward.

"The hell is the Kappa Delta whatever?" Spider asked, once again positioning himself in the backseat.

"Cynthia," Chris replied, almost forlorn and lost in his tone. "It's Cynthia's sorority. You know that dance we're gonna be heading to? Well, I'm sure that bus was carrying a load of those Beta scumbags and now they're full of those things and heading for the Kappas."

"How you know they're headin' to the sorority?"

"Because most of those footprints and lines of blood were going the same direction we are."

* * *

"Alright gentlemen, get ready," Ray commented, shutting the ignition off and twisting in his seat to look between the two younger men expectantly.

"Get ready?!" Spider sneered as Chris left the car and began to head towards the trunk. "Ya'll motha-fuckas got guns and an actual flamethrower; I got a goddamn can of Hawaiian Breeze air freshener and a lighter!"

"You know kid..." the detective began in a rather friendly tone as he checked his handgun; another smile on his face. "I'm starting to like you, so don't go and ruin it by making me shoot that smart mouth of yours." He got out of his vehicle and met a waiting Chris at the trunk.

Spider sighed as he made his own exit, briefly watching as the detective helped fasten the bulky piece of heavy artillery to the tuxedo-clad man. His interest waned almost as quickly as it formed and he found himself examining his surroundings a moment later, his eyes scanning the endless array of lit windows that ran up and down the street affectionately known as 'Sorority Row'. "It's gonna be another hell of a night," he commented under his breath. A second later, he spotted a naked girl in a random window of a random sorority, not a care in the world that she was exposing herself for all to see. A smile quickly spread across Spider's lips. "A least I got a nice view."

Detective Cameron nudged the hypnotized punk a minute later, breaking him from his daze. "Hey, Peeping Tom with the Hawaiian Breeze, let's go! Three houses down." He pointed across the street to a rather nice, two-story building.

Spider took a moment to appreciate the house. The thing exuded Antebellum architecture in its structure. Evenly spaced large windows almost consumed the front of the house, a well-manicured yard with geometrically cut bushes perfectly complimented the symmetry of the building and huge Greek letters 'ΚΔΣ' sat in the middle of a semi-circular balcony, the platform itself help up by six Composite pillars that bordered the front porch. A couple appeared to have just perched themselves on the front steps.

As the group made their way toward the house, Ray and Chris looking everywhere for slug-carrying Betas, Spider took note of the couple sitting and talking on the front porch.

"I tell ya, man, I'd rather be on that step, talkin' with that bunny than with your sorry asses..." His words faded towards the end as he realized that not all was as fine as it first seemed with the chatting couple. The blond man looked pale and his eyes were milky and glazed over like he was sick... or dead. The situation began to look even worse when slug-like creatures began slithering out of the man's open mouth, hitting the concrete below and zooming into the dark.

"Um, guys," the young punk started in as heightened tone, pointing to the sitting duo while knots formed in his stomach, "I think he's one of them."

Chris quickened his pace, seemingly unable to actually run with the flamethrower bouncing up and down and jostling him around every time he tried. "Cynthia!" he yelled as he neared the front step. "Cynthia, get away from it!"

Spider watched as Cynthia looked back at the man she was talking to and her face twisted into shock and horror at the sight before her. Releasing a scream, she leapt up and ran from her spot as the detective stepped forward and aimed his snub nose at the dead man. A shot rang out and the sight that followed nearly made Spider sick to his stomach. The living corpse's head split open directly in the middle, right where Ray had placed his perfect shot. To Spider, it looked like an egg that had been cracked vertically instead of horizontally, and instead of yolk and albumen pouring out of the split, dozens of slugs were. The outpouring make him think there was a subdued pressure that had been released when the head was injured and the creatures inside swelled in size, causing the cranium to simply burst open and spill its contents. For a brief moment, even give all that he had witnessed in the past thirty hours, Spider couldn't believe his eyes, especially at the sight of some slugs flying upwards from the opening, like a squirt of water from the top of an elegant fountain. Only a few of the things hit the concrete before the dead man's head was engulfed in flames from Chris' flamethrower. The few slugs that had escaped were, ironically, disposed of by their own kind when burning ones fell on top of them and set them aflame as well.

"Jesus..." a stunned Spider whispered, raising his hand over his mouth a moment later.

Chris merely stared at the burning corpse, watching as it fell forward onto the ground before he spoke. "Sorry, Brad. Don't take it personal."

"Don't- don't take it personal?" Spider questioned in shock, beginning to cough as smoke trickled into his nostrils and down his throat. The smell of singed hair was bad enough, but it was almost overwhelmed by a scent that the punk had never encountered before and didn't want to ever again- burning flesh. "You know how much of a damned creepy psychopath you sounded like just then?"

"Hey, he-" Chris began to defend before he was interrupted by the detective.

"Enough!" Ray's demanding voice boomed. "Spanky, you and the girl stay out here," he ordered, handing the young man his shotgun. "If anymore of those things show up, you know what to do. I'll take Buckwheat inside with me; maybe he'll have an easier time rounding all the ladies up and charming them into a single room." The detective commenced to barge into the sorority, which was crowded with curious sisters keen to see what all the fuss was outside, and after taking a moment to throw Chris a wary glare and give Cynthia a good up and down, admiring her figure and gorgeous face, Spider followed.

"Hey! Who're you?" a random woman called out as the two men entered the house.

In what came naturally to him, Spider couldn't help but look at the outspoken, blonde female. She stood with her hands on her hips, a spaghetti strap, dark purple dress with intricate embroidered swirls and patters of black lace wrapped around her body and exemplified her curves in all the right areas. Detective Cameron ignored the girl, checking the barrel of his handgun as he sped through the foyer. Spider felt somewhat awkward, holding his makeshift flamethrower in one hand while the gas mask he looped into his belt flopped against his leg. He felt so awkward, in fact, that he didn't even notice the amount of double-takes and welcoming stares he was receiving; an occurrence that he surely would have taken advantage of given better circumstances. The eyes of the sorority sisters weren't just glued to the younger man, as many were also looking at the detective. In both instances, the results were mixed. Some of the women appeared unsettled by the presence of the men, a few seemed outright confused, others appeared to not care one way or another and a couple ogled the twosome with some wistful interest in their eyes. Much like his younger cohort, Ray's good looks generally didn't go unnoticed by the opposite sex. Even in his early fifties, the man retained almost all of the suave, rugged looks he had been blessed with. For some women, older men held a certain appeal, and for those women, Ray hit all the marks. The problem for them was the detective didn't care. He hadn't cared about any kind of relationship since that night twenty-seven years earlier when he found the love of his life in pieces.

"I'm gonna call the police!" the woman in the purple dress yelled out, though her words took on more of a taunt.

"You do that," Cameron shouted back. "Now! And tell 'em to untie Walt in the armoury while you're at it." He took a sharp right into the living room with Spider hot on his heels. After taking a moment to survey the room, he removed a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shook the package up and down quickly with a flick of his wrist, causing one of the nicotine-filled sticks inside to pop up. Ray closed his eyes and did his best to enjoy the first puff of his cigarette; the relaxing, familiar scent of smoke as it greeted his senses, the small hit of dopamine releasing in his brain as cigarette vapors traveled to his lungs and calmed his nerves... but it didn't work. The small collection of frightened, concerned girls in the room all but ruined the moment for him. "This spot'll do," he sighed, opening his eyes and turning slightly to better face the punk who was looking out of a nearby window. "Find all the girls you can and tell 'em to get to this room."

The detective's words were all but lost on Spider. They entered his ears only as a light muttering while panic set in on what his eyes were absorbing from outside. The hand he used to hold the curtain slightly askew began to tremble as his breaths increased, his face so close to the glass that his near-hyperventilation was creating an ever-growing circle of fog around the pane.

"Hey, Buckwheat," Cameron demanded, somewhat annoyed at the realization he was being ignored, "get the other-"

"Get your old, crusty ass over here, five-o; you gotta see this."

The detective's upper lip twitched slightly as he raised his cigarette up for another quick puff before joining Spider at the window, angrily huffing out a cloud of smoke as he did. "What?" he grunted, almost dismissively, before pulling back the section of sheer curtain in front of him and receiving his answer without the young man next to him having to utter another word. "Wonderful..." Ray sighed at the sight before him.

A girl rushed into the room, the same one who had yelled at the two when they first entered the sorority, exclaiming, "You creeps better get outta here; I called the cops. All the Betas will be here soon, too, and they'll kick your asses!"

A half-grin grew on Detective Cameron's lips. "Speaking of your dates, I have some good news and some bad news about that, girls..." He turned to face the unreserved newcomer, as well as the few others scattered around the room who were looking towards the two men. "The good news is your dates are here..."

"What's the bad news?" one of the sorority sisters near the front of the room asked, tightly clutching her pink robe closed as intimidation and apprehension radiated from her. Another woman stood slightly in front of her with a polar opposite demeanor, looking unaffected, if not outright bored, in her appearance as she stared at the two men. She popped her gum loudly and continued to chomp it with an open mouth afterwards, all the while holding a can of hairspray up as if to silently say, 'You two need to leave; we have more important shit to worry about- like formal.'

In a monotone manner that almost made his statement seem like a bad joke, Ray revealed, "They're dead."

The men stepped away from the window as women began to crowd it, most genuinely curious to see if the detective was crazy, pulling their leg... or both.

"Go upstairs and get everyone up there down here- now!" Cameron demanded towards Spider as screams, shrieks and hysterical terror began to fill the room. The women at the windows had caught sight of their dead, mangled dates coming to get them.

Spider shook his head. "Why?" he asked, confused and frustrated by the command. "So those things can take all of us down at once? What kind of stupid plan is that?"

Ray sighed, unintentionally releasing another wisp of smoke from the cigarette clinched between his teeth. "No, do it because I said so. Now go!"

The punk complied, repeating a chorus of, 'Shit! Fuck! Shit! Fuck!' in his head as his feet rapidly ascended each step to the second floor.

_We're about to be surrounded by those fuckers, in a house, and I'm supposed to go collect people instead of saving my own ass?! And I'm actually doing it? What the fuck is wrong with-_

Suddenly, above his own voice in his head, above the screams and frantic murmurings of terrified sorority sisters, Detective Cameron's voice caught Spider's attention. 'Well don't go out there!' he heard the man shout and turned around to see women scattering into the foyer, some even bolting out the front door before something unseen stopped them in their tracks on the porch. All at once the detective's meaning struck Spider. Even if everyone were to collect into what would basically be a giant target, it made more sense than to send everyone into the wind and chance infecting unknown numbers of them to have to unexpectedly face at a moment's notice.

He stopped at the top of the stairs, suddenly very aware that he had no idea what to say to not only get any stragglers to move, but not panic at the same time. Several girls were already poking their heads around doors and while he could simply barge into each room unannounced and potentially see a lot of skin, he wasn't  _that_  deprived of morals.

_Rat infestation? No. Fire? No._  His eyes lit up suddenly at his last thought.  _Smoke, though? Maybe._

Without warning, Spider's reason literally rang in his ears as a loud shotgun blast exploded from the front of the house, the sound surging through the front door like a shock wave.

"Someone's outside with a gun!" he yelled instinctively, completely disregarding his hesitancy to induce panic. "Get downstairs, quick!"

When he thought about it, yelling about someone with a gun and telling people to run towards the sound made absolutely no sense... and yet it worked. Five women came scampering out of their rooms, some with half-done hair, some with partial makeup, and all with high-pitched, ear-piercing screams escaping them.

While the shotgun blasts continued to erupt from outside, Spider made his way from door to door, making sure the second floor was empty. Upon approaching the last door, he was almost sure he could hear the faint tones of music emitting from behind the closed egress and a very familiar, inviting scent of marijuana greeted his nostrils. He knocked on the door but wasn't met with an answer. The sounds of windows breaking crept up the stairs and pushed Spider to throw the door open; the sight he was greeted with made his jaw drop. A very slender, very fit Caucasian woman was dancing with her back to him; her long, curly, hazel-toned locks bounced with every shake and thrust of her hips. The headphones she was wearing were blaring out a track from beneath their orange foam covers, and though it wasn't loud enough for him to make out what t was, he assumed it must have been deafening in her ears and that was why she didn't respond to the shouts, screams or gunshots. Helplessly lost in a trance, Spider took notice of her only two articles of clothing she was wearing; a light pink matching bustier and panties. Her arms were raised above her head as she danced; a tightly rolled joint held loosely between the thumb and index finger of one hand while a Sony Walkman was cradled in the other.

"Goddamn!" Spider whispered before pulling himself to his senses a moment later. "Hey," he called out, but there was no reply, no acknowledgment... just continued dancing. He repeated himself, much louder, and finally gained the girl's attention.

She stopped dancing, stopped moving, but her arms remained raised far above her head.

"Um... y-y-you alright?"

Something instantly felt off about the situation to him and, when the woman's head twitched to the side suddenly, the rate and angle screaming 'unnatural' in their appearance, his suspicions were all but confirmed.

"Oh shit, oh shit..." Spider echoed while fumbling to arm his flamethrower. Before he could light the thing, the can slipped from his hand, bounced and ultimately bumped into the heel of the girl in front of him. "Oh, shit..." he groaned in defeat, the woman's arms falling to her sides, palms slapping against the exposed skin of her thighs while her joint and Walkman flew off in different directions. The latter ripped the headphones off her head in an almost comical fashion.

As she turned, Spider could see that her face had taken on the same creepy, lifeless characteristics as the blonde-haired man from earlier; the same clouded eyes, the same thinning of the face that made her eye sockets sink and her skull appear to protrude in various areas. Her withered facial features twisted into a snarl before she lept forward, wrapping her arms around Spider's neck and lifting her legs just above his hips, locking them around his waist.

Spider fell back from the sudden added weight, terror stretching across his face at the burst of action that quickly overtook him; his back crashing through a vanity mirror behind him while the back of his thighs slammed into a desk. Various cosmetic items tumbled to the floor with a clatter, some shattering and some rolling away, as well as a heavy, metal table fan. The impact of the machine hitting the floor was so great that it caused the front protective panel of the thing to break free, leaving the spinning metal blades uncovered as they relentlessly sliced through the air. Spider yelled out in pain as a shard of glass sliced across his fingers, his ears being greeted by an alien-like, high-pitched screech erupting from the woman. She began rocking her hips back and forth against his body in a perverse, intimate manner; the action too sexual to be an attack, but the situation too repugnant to be erotic.

As she continued to rub her body against his, she also began attempting to pull his head closer to hers, the peak of a parasitic slug sticking out of her mouth in lieu of her tongue. Struggling to keep the girl at arm's length, Spider pushed her as far away as he could with an open-hand against her sternum, placing the other hand on the desk in an attempt to gain leverage. His actions once again left him howling in pain as his palm pressed firmly on the barrel of a hot curling iron, instantly burning an imprint of the tool into his hand.

The slug shot forward like a bullet from a gun, and it was only by the luck of his knee-jerk reaction to pain that Spider had zigged his head to the right, completely out of the thing's path. It hit the particle board behind the broken mirror, slicing itself on a sharp edge of glass, and quickly scurried off of the desk, away from the perceived danger... and directly into the rotating fan blades below. An unsettling grinding noise filled the air for a moment before the fan died entirely, the propellers audibly slowing as they cut through something thick and tough.

Realizing what had just happened was too close for comfort, Spider shot his injured hand forward, covering the open mouth of the woman as yet another slug was attempting to exit the orifice. He grunted and shoved her head away with all his might, but she was pushing back just as hard. As the sensation of the slug forcing its way between his fingers became sickeningly real, Spider realized that the woman's head began to pulsate and swell, her body still gyrating in the rhythm it seemed to be stuck in. Her arms suddenly went limp, stopping their constant tug on his neck and slipping off his shoulders, but her legs remained locked tight around him. Inhumane, panted groans started to escape her and something Trash had once said echoed in Spider's mind, seemingly taunting him in his current situation.

_Horror is the relationship between sex and death..._

There were many things Trash said that just seemed like she pulled the words out of the air and didn't care if it made sense or not, and that was certainly one of them at the time she spoke it. Now that he was trapped in a situation the emulated both death and provocativeness, he began to feel as if he was living out a scene in his own horror movie and Trash's ramblings were actually clairvoyant.

He could see the woman's skull shifting under her skin, the once-whole set of bones in her head now in pieces that were drifting like debris on water. Her eyes were beginning to bulge, undoubtedly being pushed out of their sockets by the creatures inside, and her nose began expanding as well, the cartilage supporting it popping and snapping noisily. Spider went into full-blown panic, an ugly scowl of fear and despair stretching across his face as he scrambled to think of something, anything, to stop the things from breaking through the woman's head and making him their new home. Removing his hand from her chest, he blindly reached for whatever he could grab on the desk. When his fingers fumbled across the rubbery ridge of a handle he grabbed it and brought the tool closer. It was the curling iron, still hot as it was when it burned him, and he knew he didn't have time to try for anything else.

"I'm sorry," he confessed in a broken, remorseful tone before shoving the barrel of the iron under the woman's chin. The rod was thrust through her head with such force that it snapped her mouth shut; her jaws cracking together so hard that her teeth cut the slug in her mouth in two. Her body stopped its shaking and her head began to mimic the action as he pushed up one last time, forcing the hot cylinder through the mass of broken bones stirring in her head and directly into the nest of slugs attempting to hatch. There were screeches upon screeches escaping the sorority sister, but none of them were from her. The things inside were screaming in pain or releasing a death rattle; Spider didn't care which so long as there was enough heat in her head to kill each and every one of them. Her legs loosened and her body fell to the floor with a thud, her head jiggling like a bowl of jello as thick secretions of white, fizzling foam poured out of every hole in her head.

Panting breathlessly and using every last ounce of strength he had to stop from simply folding over to the floor, Spider watched as all the woman's movement stopped and the horrid sounds ceased. It was the pain that pulsed from his hand that brought the young man out of his daze, causing him to step over the dead body on the floor and make his way to a set of dresser drawers on the other side of the room. Using his good hand, he ripped the top tray out with such force that it nearly spilled its contents to the floor. He grabbed a lacy, white teddy from the top of the clothing pile in the drawer and proceeded to wipe the sweat from his face, trembling slightly as he did so. He cleaned his injured hand next, grimacing as he agitated the tender, open wounds as well as the raw, inflamed flesh on his palm. The blood was still flowing, but more than anything he just wanted the slime from the slug off of him. A gunshot from downstairs caused him to jolt slightly as he wrapped a clean piece of lingerie around his hand; the shot was quickly followed by five more blasts. Spider sighed, closed his eyes and put his hands on either side of the dresser, leaning into the structure. When he opened his eyes again, a small smile grew on his face at the sight of a plastic baggie atop the dresser stuffed with some of the best looking buds he had ever seen. He quickly grabbed the bag and stuffed it into the bulky front pocket of his camo pants, laughing as he briefly pondered what Detective Cameron would do if he found the weed on him. His laughter ended almost instantly when he realized that the shots he last heard were quieter than that of a shotgun and far more rapid than the pump-action firearm could produce. The gunfire, he rationalized, had to have come from Cameron's snub nose.

Running down the stairs and into the living room, Spider was met with a grisly scene upon his arrival. Sprays and splatters of red blood decorated the white walls like some grotesque form of abstract art. Bay doors were burst inward, their hinges barely holding on to more than a chunk of wood and glass. The floor was a littered mess of everything, but what stuck out most were the four bodies scrawled across the carpet. One was near the middle of the room, its head still smoking from whatever means were used to ignite the thing, and the other three were clustered close together near the west corner. Among the trio was the girl in the pink robe; her head was split, but only barely. It was still a clear indication that she had turned. A chunk of her brain was bulging from the wound and what looked to be a slimy, bloody slug trail stained the white carpet, traveling from the body to the door before fading away. Even given all he had experienced in the past five minutes, Spider still raised his good hand to cover his mouth, retching before bolting from the room. His only solace with the stomach-turning sight was that Detective Cameron was  _not_  among the dead bodies. He slammed the door shut and leaned against it, closing his eyes for a moment to control his breathing. In his rush, he hadn't paid a single ounce of attention to the group of sorority sisters in the foyer with him, most of whom were either hysterical or in shock.

Once he felt calmer, he opened his eyes and looked around the room, taking note of what he  _wasn't_  seeing or hearing. There were no further sounds of gunfire, shotgun or otherwise, and slug-infested bodies were nowhere in sight, much less overwhelming the house. "What happened?" he asked, locking eyes with the one girl who appeared to notice him.

Her blue, silky dress almost radiated as lights from the foyer bounced off of it, but her light-brown hair, every strand as straight as a pin, was wet and matted in places. After concentrating for a moment, Spider noticed a large streak of blood smeared across her cheek, the line of splatter crossing over into her hair and making the same wet, matted spot that appeared in other areas. "They're all dead." She seemed to look through him when answering, horrified beyond belief by what she had witnessed. "Those two psychopaths outside killed them all. Shot them and set them on fire. Now they'll come for us... now they'll come for us." She continued to repeat her last five words, her voice growing fainter and fainter with each echo.

Spider knew she was a lost cause, one that didn't understand what truly happened... or simply refused to. Still, he needed to know what happened to the detective. "Where did the old man go?"

She continued to just stare through him, her words turning into nothing but soft murmurs.

"The old cop wearin' the trench coat and sportin' a soup strainer under his nose! Anybody know where the hell he went?" he yelled, hoping for someone to answer.

Another grief-stricken, terrified girl, the long-haired blonde in the purple, spaghetti strap dress, uttered a single word through unrestrained sobs and just barely lifted her hand up high enough to point to an open door in the hallway. "Basement."


	19. Unidentified Flying Object

 

An ominous feeling crept into Spider as he cautiously descended the steps leading to the basement. The whole night had had an ominous feel to it after Detective Cameron made his appearance known, but the dread building up in Spider was far more intense. The open doorway at the bottom of the stairs was getting closer and closer, but it didn't reveal much to go on. The wall directly in front of it housed a few lengths of pipe running into the concrete floor and, for some reason, a lone, old tire stuffed behind them. It was eerily quiet as well, so much so that the only sound Spider could hear was the ever increasing slithering nose of the creatures. As he stepped around the corner into the actual basement, he realized that they were not screeching, that the only time they ever seemed to screech was when they were aware of people nearby. It was pitch dark in the basement, but light from outside showered through the small, rectangular awning windows and illuminated enough of the room for Spider to see where he was going without troubles. Cobwebs littered the items that had long been forgotten about in the damp, dark basement. Most of the items looked like they had been stored there for quite some time; thick coats of dust covered almost everything, but not enough to obscure labels and bottles that had clearly been manufactured in the decades beforehand. As he slowly walked passed the first shelving unit, Spider found himself wishing his vision was a little more dimmed to the horror in the corner in front of him. The wall almost appeared to be living, breathing, moving... and, in part, it was. No more then fifty feet in front of him stood a squirming, heaving mass of slugs, their collective size dwarfing that of a refrigerator. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of slugs wriggling atop one another.

"Holy shit..." Spider whispered, placing his flamethrower on the shelf and putting his gas mask on. As he reached for the can again, silently thanking the powers that be that he had not been foolish enough to leave his weapon in the room upstairs nor walk into the light only a foot in front of him before he was ready, something grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him back, ripping his collar in the process. He swiftly raised a closed fist, ready to strike whoever had seized him, infected or not. His fist wavered and fell as relief washed over him at the sight of Detective Cameron's unimpressed glare. The detective's signature mustache, however, was nowhere to be seen; hidden beneath a strip of duct tape that was plastered across the man's mouth.

Spider pulled his mask above his face, resting it atop his head. "What the fuck you doin'?" he questioned in a condescending whisper. "Where's your mask, stupid?"

Ray mumbled out a reply that couldn't be understood, raising his hand and pointing to the door adamantly as he did so. When it immediately became apparent that the young punk had no idea what he was saying, the detective peeled the tape off his mouth and tried again.

"I said get the hell outta here and make sure everyone leaves the house with you! Go!"

Spider squinted in disbelief and shook his head. "Hell no, man; I ain't letting you carry out some damn suicide mission by yourself. We do this together and get the fuck out."

Ray sighed and rolled his eyes. "Kid, I appreciate your tenacity, but there isn't gonna be any getting out when this is done. You think that little flamethrower of yours would stop that wall of 'em? You might scorch the top layer, but I guarantee you that ones beneath it would be all over you in a second. They're angry and they're smart. Only way to do this is take 'em all out at once. Someone's gotta stay behind to do that and, kid, you're looking at him." He held up a red gasoline container and sloshed around the remaining liquid inside to make his point, carefree of the fact that he looked like a half-crazed lunatic by doing so.

Again Spider looked angered and confused.

"You wanna know a secret, Buckwheat? I was gonna blow myself up in my shitty little house tonight."

Shock took Spider features over, but the look didn't stop the detective from continuing.

"Had the gas stove going for at least a half an hour, one of my favorite records was playing, a glass of whiskey by my side and I was snug as a bug in a rug on my couch. Then Spanky come knockin'..." He took a breath, momentarily observing his partner's discerning glare. "I'm not some hero; haven't been since I was a dumbass rookie with a twinkle in my eye. Those days are long gone and I've been trying to bite the dust ever since. Just been too chicken shit to go through with it until tonight."

Spider was at a complete loss for words. He just stood still as a statue as the detective raised his leg to the lowest shelf in front of him and proceeded to remove the empty, small gun holster from his ankle and place his snub nose in it. He handed it to the young man a moment later.

"There, now you really can't say I never did anything for ya," Ray commented as a still-stunned Spider silently took the gift.

The action seemed to break the youth from his trance, traces of a small smile tugged on the corners of his lips for a split second. "Figures the only cop I've even not hated in my life has a fuckin' death wish, man," he complained with a sigh, shaking his head and stuffing the snub nose into his other pants pocket.

"A death wish that's gonna save your ass..." Ray looked towards the basement entrance as more figures entered, instantly recognizing them as Chris and Cynthia. "And theirs. Get them outta here, now! I'm not fooling around anymore. You've got to the count of twenty, starting now. Twenty..."

Cynthia, shotgun held tight in her hands, gasped in fear at the sight of the living, moving wall of slugs in the corner as Chris attempted to start his industrial flamethrower again.

"Don't do this, old man," Spider requested, sorrow more prominent in his voice than anger. "Don't-"

"Nineteen," the detective interrupted in a cool tone, removing the cap from the canister and throwing the first splash of gasoline at a box of old clothing.

"Aw, shit! C'mon, man!" Spider lamented, snatching his can off the shelf before rushing to the two newcomers to quickly usher them, and himself, up the steps. "Go, go! Just fuckin' go! He's gonna burn this place down!" He took one last moment to look back at the detective before following the others.

"Eighteen," Cameron uttered before releasing a sigh. He stared at Spider for a moment and a slight smile grew on his face. "You woulda made a great Stymie, kid," the detective admitted with a wink before turning his attention back to the basement and continuing to douse the area with fuel.

Ray's smile was infectious, as Spider found himself smile back. Even though the outcome was going to be nothing to be happy about, he was glad he met Detective Ray Cameron. As the countdown advanced, Spider bolted up the stairs; his gas mask jiggled and wobbled on the top of his head with each leap he took.

As he raced behind the other two, trying to exit the sorority in record time, Spider realized that they must have cleared the house before they went into the basement, as they were the only souls in the building. A small group of sisters were standing hurdled together on the sidewalk in front of the house, along with a much larger group of spectators from surrounding homes. Spider was shocked by the amount of bodies strewn across the lawn on either side of him as he ran down the concrete pathway to the group, realizing that Chris and Cynthia had had more than a handful of infected to deal with, but he was even more shocked that people had collected in front of the house to begin with. Gunshots, screams, dead bodies... it was the type of scene any sane person would run from, but the occupants of Sorority Row defied logic in that area.

Chris had been trying to keep in sync with the detective's countdown, ticking off each number at timed intervals as they fled the house. He reached 'zero' not too long after the three had joined the crowd at the sidewalk and, for a moment, Spider assumed he was off count... until it happened. The basement windows were flooded with an orange light for only a fraction of a second before they violently exploded outward, showering the yard in shards of glass and deafening the onlookers with the escaping sound of the blast. The explosion was so far-reaching that it even rocketed through all of the windows on the first floor and a few on the second, bathing the entire front of the house in flame and smoke. Police cars began to arrive moments after Ray's plan came to fruition; their sirens blaring and the red and blue lights atop the vehicles dim in comparison to the blaze of the fire. More people collected in front of the burning structure as the sound of the blast brought numerous residents from their homes; some pointed and whispered amongst themselves, some screamed and some even yelped and yowled like it was a magnificent finale to a fireworks display.

"Thanks, ol' man... you crazy son of a bitch," Spider whispered as he knelt down to place Cameron's gift around his right ankle. The intensity of the fire continuing to burn, spreading through more of the house, momentarily took his attention as he fiddled with the Velcro straps of the nylon holster. "Hey, do ya'll-" Spider began to ask after he finished, turning slightly as he stood to address Chris and Cynthia. He stopped when he saw the two locked in an intense kiss. A firetruck roared onto the scene less than a moment later, almost driving straight into the crowd and dispersing the gathering as a result. The kissing couple stayed where they were, happily stuck in their lip-lock, while Spider heard faint, familiar voices floating in from down the road.

* * *

"Well I told you that's what would happen, John."

"I don't like smug, West," John replied in a somewhat monotone fashion. "You know I'll punch a guy with glasses, right?"

"Fuck I never thought I'd be so happy to see you two!" Spider called out, quite jovially, as he trotted towards the two. He felt his gas mask shift on his head as he moved and reached up to remove it, absentmindedly using his injured hand to do so. A string of obscenities escaped him as he cradled his hurt appendage.

"You alright? What happened to your hand?" John asked as he rose his own right hand to his mouth and blew on it before shaking it fiercely and wincing.

"Battle wound," Spider answered quite simply, not very interested in telling the full tale of sexual-oriented horror. Instead, the youth averted his gaze the the gas mask in his hands, reattaching it to his belt as he spoke. "And before either one of you assholes ask, yes, it's wrapped in women's lingerie."

It only took a moment for John and Herbert to begin staring at the article of clothing; a small detail they likely never would have even noticed if Spider had not made such a big deal over it.

"There wasn't any other options, dammit!" the young punk finally blurted out after an awkward silence filled a bit too much space. "Anyway, what the hell happened to  _your_  hand, John?"

Herbert began to laugh as soon as the question was asked, not allowing John to answer. "Nothing valiant, I'm afraid." The doctor was almost gasping for air as he spoke. "I told you-" Hysterics stopped him for a moment. "I told you not to touch those neon signs, John!"

Unable to quell the stint of laughter bubbling up in his throat, Spider let loose with a loud guffaw. It felt good to laugh, necessary even, given all the sorrow, pain and fright the trio had been through in the past thirty hours.

"Knock it off, the both uh-ya," the cowboy chuckled, a sly smile painting his lips as his ego gave way to merriment. "So where's the police officer?"

Allowing his momentary fit of delirium to overtake him, Herbert threw out what he considered to be another zinger. "It seems you and the detective certainly had a blast." Once again he laughed at one of his own jokes, but this time it had an entirely different feel to it. The strong image of the flames flickering in the reflection of his glasses and the strained cackle he released created a sense of unease instead of entertainment.

Spider immediately looked dejected, taking in a deep breath through his nose and bowing his head slightly before exhaling a sigh. "Ol' five-oh bit the dust. Blew himself up along with the house to get rid of all those damn...  _things_."

John shook his head as his smile faded completely with the news. "Shame. He seemed a good man at heart. What about the boy, Spanky, and his lady? They make it at least?"

"Yeah; over there." Spider turned slightly and pointed behind himself. He took a moment to appreciate the sight of the two, still standing on the sidewalk, watching the Kappa Delta Sigma house continue to burn while they embraced one another. It wasn't really the image of them together that made him smile, but rather that he was sure Detective Cameron made a noble, if not selfish, sacrifice that allowed them to be as they were. John's voice suddenly chimed in, ruining any good vibes growing within Spider.

"I thought you said that detective was a goner, Spider."

"What?!"

Spider and Herbert turned around to face the direction John was already staring in and all three watched as a trench-coat wearing figure slowly approached them; it appeared to have come from the torched sorority. There was a momentary silence in the air as they all watched in a trance, Herbert and John seemingly frozen while a look of anger grew on Spider's face.

"No!" Emotion filled the punk's cracking voice as he yelled towards the advancing body; in his mind he was already sure John was right with his speculation as to who it was. "No! You dead, ol' man! You blew yourself up in that Goddamn house!" His hand rose as he spoke, finger pointing indignantly at the burning building. "You did  _not_  let those fuckers get in you! No!"

The figure continued to make headway despite Spider's protests and, as the street lights removed the shadow surrounding it, it became quite apparent that the person was Detective Cameron. His charred, cracked flesh squashed any hope that that rogue police officer may have miraculously survived the explosion. A lit cigarette wobbled loosely from the corner of his mouth, a string of smoke rising above his head into the dark sky above and the ember glowing ominously. It wasn't just his cigarette that was smoldering – he was, too! Twists of smoke oozed from his skin and the burnt material of his coat in thick sheets.

"Stop right there, mister. I don't- I don't wanna shoot... but I will."

John unholstered his gun as Herbert and Spider took a few steps back, the latter even removing the aerosol can from his pants pocket and attempting to light it.

"You might want to try with the other gun, John," the doctor advised.

Pointing a questioning gaze at the revolver in his hand, the cowboy released his own short string of obscenities upon the realization that he had grabbed his cattleman revolver instead of the P85. As he fumbled to switch guns, the detective's walking corpse stopped only feet from him. After releasing one last puff from his cigarette, Ray's body fell face-first to the hard asphalt beneath him.

"Shit..." John sighed as a round chunk of Ray's smoldering head simply popped open like a Jack-in-the-box. Only, instead of a toy clown or jester flying out, numerous full-grown slugs slithered passed the men and under a wrought iron gate no more than fifty feet away from them.

Spider looked at the detective's lifeless body sullenly, but his head snapped back up as he picked up on the increasingly loud smack of shoes hitting pavement nearing them.

"What happened?" Chris asked in a distressed voice, nearly skidding to a stop by the men as the soles of his dress shoes slid atop the flat surface. His eyes were immediately drawn to the burnt corpse in the middle of the road.

"Slugs got the detective," Spider explained, disappointed. "Used his damn body to get outta the fire and popped out in front of us. Went in there..." He pointed to the gate as he spoke, directing Chris' attention to the concrete barrier Herbert was already investigating.

"Oh no..." Chris released dismally a moment before Herbert released a remark of the same sentiment. It was quite apparent that the young man knew exactly what was beyond that gate.

"We've got a problem." The doctor adjusted his glasses, standing to the side of the concrete wall as he moved the encroaching ivy vines that were growing over a sign to the left of the gate. "This is a cemetery."

Built-up letters reading, 'Crestridge Cemetery' were on display for all to see; perfectly highlighted by the lone lamppost next to the gate and abhorrently threatening given the unfortunate circumstances.

"That place has over three-hundred acres of graves!" Chris informed, leading the other three men to turn to him in shock and speak concurrently.

"Three-hundred acres?!"

Herbert put his hand to his forehead and dramatically looked to the sky, not at all interested in trying to search almost a square-half-mile of land for the roaming dead. What he saw looming above put everything else on the back-burner. "We've got... a  _big_  problem," he spoke after not being able to squeak a sound from his open mouth for a moment. Even then his voice sounded distant and astonished. "Very big."

"Yeah, we know: fuckin' cemetery, man," Spider lamented, trying to recover from what felt like endless blows. "Meanwhile, I'm wonderin' what the fuck we gonna do if one of them police officers strolls by and notices a crispy lookin' Detective Cameron layin' at our feet."

"This problem's bigger," the doctor assured, nodding his head slightly. He was still rooted in his spot, staring up into the sky.

Looking at the man for a moment, Spider finally followed his upward gaze and his jaw dropped as he did so. Unable to suppress their curiosity, the two other men followed suit.

Above them hovered a large, dark aircraft, the outer edges of its left flank becoming more and more illuminated as it drifted towards the light of the full moon. It was an indescribable shape, one that broadly mimicked a bowling pin in its form, but had so many differing, foreign characteristics that it was hard to compare it to any symmetry. Some constructs jutted out like large turrets, pointing in all directions, and others appeared to be of elements lifted straight from a sci-fi movie. Patterns of reddish-orange light further illuminated the underside of the craft from various crevices and structures that they radiated from, the biggest of which was a sphere-shaped annex that protruded from the craft like a strange observation deck. The thing was also massive, easily dwarfing a football field in both length and width.

"Is that one-uh them fancy airplanes you were going on about earlier, West?" John broke the unsettling silence with his question, the daunted concentration the men were emitting towards the soaring scene of intimidation and uncertainty never breaking.

"Not exactly." As soon as the detective shared the origin story of the slug-like creatures, a part of Herbert's childhood came alive and he momentarily believed the organisms to have a deeper, darker beginning. The foreign container, far more advanced than it should have been for the time, the crater it left on impact... even the far-reaching speculation that it was a space shuttle pod; they all left a very distinct and finite impression on the doctor. Space was his first thought, but the idea was so ridiculous, clashed so horribly with his scientific-fact oriented brain that he almost immediately dismissed it. Now, however, with an alien-esque vision floating above him, the conclusion didn't just seem logical, it felt irrefutable. 

Spider continued to stare up at the spacecraft in awe as a spotlight shown from a random part in the UFO's underbelly and began to scan the cemetery below it. "Chuck, man... I wish you were here to see this. Motha-fuckin' aliens..."

A sharp, shrill scream tore everyone's attention back to the sidewalk in front of the sorority. More screams followed on the heels of the first and many of the crowded spectators began fleeing like roaches in a lit room.

The initial scream had come from Cynthia.

While her new beau had ventured off to meet Spider and his travel partners after hearing their shouts, Cynthia had stayed in her spot, watching the Kappa Delta Sigma house continue to burn. A dog came walking up to her soon after, sitting in front of the girl and begging for attention. Cynthia recognized the canine as that of the recently deceased housemother of her now-defunct sorority. It was a cute, black and white patchwork mutt that always made sure to notify the housemother if someone was at her door. The lead sorority sister had all but forgotten about the dog after the Kappa matriarch had been discovered hacked to pieces in her home the night before, courtesy of the returned Ivan Wroth.

"Hey you," Cynthia greeted, a huge smile on her face as she went down on bended knee to meet the canine. It was at that moment that she realized something was wrong. The dog didn't look normal. Its fur was matted and dirty, even blood-soaked in spots, and there were bald spots along its body showcasing rotting, deteriorated flesh where hair used to be. As her shocked eyes veered up towards the dog's, she realized that its left eye was missing as well, nothing but a bloody, oozing socket remained. The remaining eye looked just as clouded and dead as all the Betas the girl had just disposed of. The dog's lips pulled back and a growl rattled from its throat, culminating in a slug flying out towards Cynthia. Unfortunately for the girl, she had just opened her mouth and released a scream, giving the creature an easy entrance.

"Cynthia!" Chris cried out in cracking voice, fight or flight shifting into high gear and causing the boy to make haste towards his doomed significant other.

Spider was set on joining his newest friend when a gun blast rang out and stopped him dead in his tracks. The head of the infected dog jerked to the side violently, causing the rest of its body to fling to the harsh degree as well, as bits of everything flew out from the large crater that erupted from the exiting bullet. John moved his extended arm slightly, training the sights on his next target and pulling back on the trigger. His arm was pushed upward and the released shot sailed high into the sky, piercing the outer darkness above instead of the inner cortex of Cynthia's brain.

"What the fuck you doin'?" Spider yelled harshly, doing his best to restrain the gunslinger from another execution.

"Making sure that little lady's suffering ends before it begins, friend," John explained, fighting his inner urge to slug Spider and immediately take aim again. "Unless you want her to come over here and infect all of us." He tried to lower his arm, pushing back against the strength of the younger, slimmer man, but the battle was surprisingly even-handed.

Spider had leaned in, throwing the majority of his body weight against John's force and keeping his arm, and the gun, pointed high in the air as a result. "That ain't your call, John! She's not even dead yet! Look at what you did back there; you sent all them things in that dog's head loose! Ain't like they're gonna slither right into the fuckin' fire by themselves!"

John pulled his head back and looked over his shoulder, watching as small objects zoomed in all directions. Some even looked like they were actually chasing after the fleeing rubberneckers. They were so far away and the things were so small that he couldn't even begin to count all of them. As he continued to struggle for power with his companion, he lost a small amount of will to do so, realizing that the youth had a few valid points.

"Hell, maybe she can puke the damn thing up or something! I dunno! If she can't... Chris'll take care of it."

"And if he can't?" John felt Spider ease up from the pressure on his end as he asked, but he was unsure if it was the question that caused the slack or fatigue.

Spider watched as Chris made his way to Cynthia, falling to his knees in front of her and instantly cradling her small, crying frame in his slightly larger one. Their embrace was heartbreaking because they had all fought so hard for everything they earned after escaping the sorority, including each other. Their embrace was heartbreaking because Chris wasn't giving up on her... even if it killed him. Their embrace was heartbreaking because, deep down, the punk knew John was right... she was a dead woman just waiting to recognize it. Spider couldn't answer John's question. He wouldn't even if he wanted to, because the horrible truth was that soon it would be on them to take care of Cynthia... the sight before his eyes was proof enough of that.

Herbert, tucked nearly into the shadows as he drifted slightly further from the cemetery wall, was observing the tragic turn of events with a morbid curiosity about him, one arm crossed over his chest, fingers wrapped tight around the handle of his medicine bag, and the elbow of his other atop it as he rested his chin in his hand, scratching at it habitually.

The men were so absorbed in the sight they were witnessing that they failed to notice the glow that was radiating from the doctor's bag... or their own cores.

* * *

As the light faded, the trio found themselves in unfamiliar territory yet again.

"What?" Spider cried out despondently as the sudden reintroduction of a daytime atmosphere played tricks on his mind. He let go of John's arm, moving away and looking all around him while quickly realizing they were no longer standing in front of the entrance gates to the Crestridge cemetery... or anywhere else that looked even slightly familiar. "Fuck! No! People need help and we keep gettin' pulled away?! This shit's gettin' old!" He paced for a moment, feeling like yelling and screaming loud nothings for no reason, like destroying whatever was in front of him just to see if it was real, like he couldn't decide what emotions he was experiencing and needed to hold onto the sides of his head before they all burst out. The man was inexplicably angry... and shaken. The daunting feeling of a complete loss of control weighing heavily on his shoulders; a feeling that had only begun to spark when he had transitioned to Crestridge, but had finally fulling bloomed. If he was being honest with himself, if his mind would stop spinning and allow him to grasp onto singular concepts, he would try to unravel the feeling of fog that had enveloped him, quell the sensation of free-falling from one far-fetched realm of existence to another... but that seemed to be exactly what was happening, and the idea was too staggering to even fathom.

"Tell me about it," John sighed, lowering his handgun while watching Spider try to get ahold of himself, ultimately switching his sights when the youth's reactions began to trigger uneasiness in his own mind. He began to cynically examine the scenery around him... scenery that was certainly  _not_  the barren, dry earth that he had hoped to see. He had hoped to see home after the next time the while light enveloped him. Not Arkham, Massachusetts, not Louiseville, Kentucky, not Credridge, California and certainly not wherever the hell this was, but Goddamn New Austin or West Elizabeth. Just... home.

Instead, John was greeted with a city that looked much like Blackwater had, only far more advanced. Buildings propelled into the sky, reaching over ten stories tall, and there were fenced-off structures hugging either side of the road, barricading most of it, but there were also large gaps where the blockade had clearly been tampered with to allow passage through it. Smoke filled the air, most of it floating up from various, scattered pieces of a crashed airplane; almost all of them still aflame in some way. Competing with the black fumes was a green-hued smog that had risen above the skyline; hovering high in the sky as far as they eye could see.

John's untrained eye, unaccustomed to what a modern city looked like, did not catch the subtle, telltale signs of a run down area. The cracked asphalt with the faded line markers, the gaping potholes that had only grown as time went on, the weather-worn, rust-eaten signs scattered on random corners of connecting streets, lid-less garbage cans overflowing with trash. The abundant placement of chemical cisterns, active chimney stacks that jutted from the ground and pierced the sky, and the intertwined train graveyard were a lost sight to the man, blending in too perfectly with what was already overwhelming his senses. Wherever they were had seen far brighter days, even if the cowboy didn't know any better to realize it.

Herbert stood with his companions, an almost-giddy smile on his face. Unlike the other two, being dropped in a new location did not bother him, as he truly had nothing tying him to anywhere in particular. He had his notes, he had his serum, and thanks to whatever was happening to them, he also had two new forms of reanimation he could tinker around with and possibly absorb into his final creation.

"Least we don't have to worry about any fuckin' aliens no more," Spider breathed in slight relief, reeling his head back and looking at a UFO-free sky. His overwhelming state of mind began to calm as he relaxed his breathing and regained his composure. After bringing his vision back to ground level, he proceeded to read aloud one of the few intelligible placards in front of them. It, too, was faded and weather-worn, but still legible. "'Steelport Chemical and Waste Disposal. Ultor chemical disposal services.' That doesn't sound too welcoming. This a kind of industrial park or somethin'?" He looked at the logo to the left of the words, a stylized side-view of a continuous mining machine blade, colored orange, with the letters 'UCDS' in the middle of it.

"We've got company," Herbert admitted with a sigh, his words slightly hushed as they floated behind him towards the men he was facing away from. "The usual suspects."

Spider turned towards Herbert, looking passed the man, to see how bad the sights were. There were a few staggering corpses walking the sidewalk and streets a couple hundred yards away from them, none of which were paying the new arrivals any attention or even seeming to sense their presence. "That ain't so bad. I mean, ya know, comparatively."

Immediately after he spoke, as if fate saw fit to challenge his words and minimization of the situation, a long line of the undead began to flow into their view from a side street. The number was so increasingly large that it filled the four-lane road in a matter of moments.

"Gettin' worse," John sighed, holding his P85 in a defensive manner, but wearing an utterly flabbergasted look on his face that spoke volumes of how well-aware he was that he likely didn't even have enough ammunition to take out the front line.

A deafening boom slapped at the men from another corner of their location, the sound bouncing off any solid structure it came into contact with and ricocheting boundlessly passed them. It was as if a thunderclap had exploded behind them, only there hadn't been any lightning nor a single cloud in the sky. The sound caused the men to cover heir ears and instinctualy duck down as if to guard for a hit. As they looked in the direction of the noise, a metallic scrapping sound following on its heels, an encased tank slid to a stop next to them, sparks flying from the metal bars on the bottom as the asphalt below tore bits and chunks of them away. It was a pill-shaped container, held within a box-like frame of the same size and shape as the oblong capsule. On one side of it, in plain view of the men, was a large,yellow triangular warning sign with a simple message on it: a skull and crossbones. Green fumes, those that matched the exhaust hovering in the air far above, were billowing from the top of the container, a slight hiss being released from the mangled valve handle as it leaked its contents.

"I think- I think it's time we put our masks back on," Spider mumbled, wide-eyed and lost, as he unfastened the headpiece from his belt.

John and Herbert nodded in agreement, the latter being able to tear his sights away from the seeping tank and retrieve the two masks from his overstuffed medicine bag. As he did so, a small urging caused him to look behind him, back to the streets that were filling with the undead. It was an urging he instantly regretted. A look of pure horror grew on his face as a stream of undead barreled towards the trio; all of them able to run... and all of them focused on the meal ahead.


	20. Dinner on Arapice Island (Saints Row: The Third)

As the men ran around a corner and hid in a thin alleyway created by two buildings, they haphazardly put their masks on, each almost panting for breath as they had put a good distance between themselves and the walking mass of living dead. In what had become his usual custom after donning his mask, John fit his hat atop his head afterwards.

"What the fuck we gonna do?!" Spider yelled, leaning up against a wall as he bent forward with his hands on his knees. The intensity and volume of his voice was muffled to the other men because the masks were not only hindering his exclamation, but their ability to hear it as well. "This is even worse than that damn mortuary. There's hundreds of those things out there!"

Herbert shook his head, his natural cynicism taking over. "Well, yelling will  _obviously_  help, so we should do more of that."

"Hey, fuck you, pipsqueak!"

Though he couldn't tell whether the young man was actually irritated or not, Herbert also found that he couldn't care less at the time. The dose of re-agent he had injected himself with was wearing off, leaving him tired and bad-tempered. It wouldn't take long before the withdrawals would kick in again, and he had to make sure that didn't happen. "Am I supposed to be offended? Your vocabulary barely ever extends four-letter words, so excuse me if I'm not insulted by a neanderthal."

"Would you two quit?" John pitched in, hoping to be a voice of reason before the two really went at one another. "I don't even know why the hell you're fighting when we're in a bad box here already."

While both men instantly stopped arguing, they also seemed perplexed by the gunslinger's idiom. Spider merely cocked his head to the side while looking at John, but Herbert spoke his confusion.

"What in the hell is a 'bad box'?"

John shrugged, almost amused that such a common expression was clearly lost as the years went on. "You know, like a bad sitsiation..."

"Sitsiation? Did you really just say 'sitsiation', John?"

Amusement quickly gave way to embarrassment as it became clear that the doctor was disrespectfully highlighting John's antiquated speech and expressions. The cowboy slightly balled his fists as animosity grew in him. "West, you're beginning to test my patience... and I don't-"

"Shhh! Both of you assholes," Spider chastised. "We're all standing here fighting like little kids when we got death heading our way in one direction and..." He trailed off, leaning his head in one direction as if trying to hear something better. "And I'm pretty sure I can hear a voice coming our way from the other. Be able to hear it a whole lot betta if we shut the hell up, though."

As the men quieted, all three still trying to give chastising looks to one another but their masks blocking the attempts, a masculine voice could be heard, and it only became more clear with ever passing moment. It sounded as if the speaker was having a conversation with someone else, but only one side of the discussion was audible.

"STAG might be fulla assholes, but you gotta admit they have some awesome toys at their disposal, Viola. … No, no, this Sonic Boom is blowing these zombies to piles of gore if I charge it all the way before hittin' 'em. Even better if I let them get within reaching range; they turn to a fine, red mist! … What? … Got two canisters left, I think. One of 'em went flying around a corner when it bounced off a building. … Hey, ain't my fault this thing's so strong! … Yeah, yeah, I'll find it. Keep your panties on. Any luck locating the truck?"

The voice faded from earshot soon after, none of the men being able to catch the rest of the conversation in any intelligible way.

Spider shook his head. "Should we try to find him? Sounds like a fuckin' weirdo... but what other choice we got?"

"None," John said, shaking his head as well. "At least, not any that come off any better."

Herbert, standing defiant with his arms crossed over his chest, was the odd man out. "I don't like it. Seems brash and, besides, how do we even know this person isn't more of a danger than those things?"

"We don't, West, but there's one uh him and, as Spider put it, hundreds of those things. Numbers are on our side with dealing with this voice if we find we don't like the owner."

After a few moments of silence, the doctor finally released an irked-sounding 'fine!', briefly raising his arms in further agitation before letting them drop to his sides.

The trio quietly and cautiously stalked through the city once again, listening for any signs of the mysterious voice and taking note of the odd and frequent piles of blood, bones and steaming entrails that they passed.

"That guy wasn't jokin'," Spider reasoned as he tried to sidestep a mound of guts, but still ended up partially slipping on them.

The gunslinger's curiosity was suddenly piqued. "What guy?"

"The one who said he had the, uh... toy... that could do this. Called it a 'Chronic Broom' or something like that."

"He clearly said 'Sonic Boom', Spider," Herbert chimed in, rolling his eyes in the process. "'Chronic Broom' doesn't even make any sense."

John released a small chuckle, not at all willing to admit that 'Sonic Boom' made as much sense to him as what Spider had said anyway. "Well, whatever it's called, maybe it'll help all of us get out of here in one piece."

The young punk looked around cautiously at what remained of those who were at the business end of the weapon. "Yeah, if we don't spook him and he ends up using it on us first..."

As they turned a corner to enter into yet another small alleyway, they collided with another body. John, in the lead, took the brunt of the impact and the clash, knocking him back and the other person to the ground. The cowboy fell back into Spider, who, in turn, was shot back into Herbert. All three men tumbled to the ground in an odd and painful domino effect.

The man groaned from his spot on the ground, opposite John, Spider and Herbert. "What the fuck?" he released weakly, looking up into the smoky, green-tinted sky while a stupor ran through his mind. As he recalled his dangerous surroundings and rolled to his side to sit up, he made sure to check his mask to ensure it is still on right.

The trio stirred and rose to their feet as well, all attempting to shake the cobwebs from their heads in their own way.

"Oh man, what the fuck?" the man whined again as he stared at the broken Sonic Boom laying down on the ground beside him. Bits and pieces from the front of the weapon were bent or snapped off completely, scattered around the gun-like item like leaves that had fallen from a tree branch.

John watched the man, who seemed oblivious to the trio, as he first picked up the weapon, aimed it towards a trash can and ultimately pulled the trigger. Though the cowboy was uncertain of what was supposed to happen, it appeared as if nothing at all did. There was no sound of discharge nor of any kind of hit, and it looked as if the trash can was just as stationary as it had been a moment before. The action still put the gunslinger on edge, and his hand hovered over his new gun holster inherently.

"You've gotta be kidding me," the man stated, disappointment clearly in his tone as he smacked the side of the gun a few times and tried again. "No build up? No charging sounds? No boom-boom?" He sighed and slouched his shoulders, finally catching sight of the men he had run into in his peripheral vision, and noticing that one of them was armed and ready to draw. Dropping his broken weapon, he quickly replaced it with a functioning gun from his holster at the same time John removed his P85 and took aim as well.

"Whoa, whoa, John!" Spider yelled out, backing away with his arms held straight out in front of him.

"No need to get trigger-happy here, people!" Herbert argued sternly, backing away as well.

Both armed men simply continued to stare at one another, neither being able to accurately read the other through their masks. Finally, the other man spoke up, and the three instantly recognized his distinct voice as the one they had heard mere minutes earlier.

"Alright, who the fuck are y'all? I don't like strangers crashing my party, especially when you break my toys in the process." He momentarily looked back down as his broken Sonic Boom before locking eyes back on his target. "Did Burt send you? He think I couldn't get the job done or something? Or are you guys the clean-up crew here to take us out after we do the dirty work?"

"You best put down that gun, son, before I have to make a mess of your hand... or your head." John warned, not at all sure what was going on or what the man was talking about, but certain that he did not like having a firearm trained on him.

The man released a short, loud laugh. "Threaten me one more time and I'll blow your lips off while you're doin' it."

Understanding that neither man was going to stand down, Herbert inserted himself into the back and forth. "You both realize that now isn't the time to be pointing guns at one another and making threats, right? There's a mass of decaying bodies following after us and shouting is only going to give away our location! If you two want to get into a shoving match, save it for when we're out of this mess and back to civilization." He paused for a moment, hanging on to his last word. "And please tell me there's a civilization to get back to and this isn't what you call a normal day."

Tentatively, both men lowered their pistols as Spider peeked around the building they were positioned behind.

"The doc's right," he stated in a tone so low it was barely audible, whipping his head back around to the men. "Them rottin' meat bags will be all over us in a minute if we keep this shit up!"

The man simply shrugged his shoulders indignantly. Lengths of his long, black hair, tightly woven together in dreadlocks, fell from their place on his epaulettes as he performed the action. "I've taken care of groups before."

"'Taken care of groups before'?" Spider mimicked in question. "Who the hell are you, anyway?"

Replying with a certain tone of confidence in his voice, the man simply stated that he was the leader of the 'biggest, baddest gang in Steelport; the 3rd Street Saints', and those who knew him called him 'Boss,' and those who didn't, soon would. "So," he continued after gloating about his status, "how many are there? Five? Ten?"

Spider looked at him and shook his head.

"Twenty?" Boss tried again, only increasing the number with another lack of a reply. "F-forty?!"

"Try a couple hundred," the young punk stated, making his way back towards the men.

Now it was Boss' turn to shake his head. "I don't have the ammo for a couple hundred." He began looking at his surroundings. "They drop easy enough, just punch one in the head hard enough and it'll die, but that's too many to take hand-to-hand. We'll be eaten alive."

"Literally," Herbert added, his voice dripping with disappointment at the news that the reanimations around him were apparently weak and vulnerable.

"Ah, you got jokes now, huh? You guys a funny crew or somethin'?"

"It wasn't a joke," the doctor objected. "More like a statement of fact."

"And we ain't no crew, mister; just a group of people stuck with one another by reason of a damned mask." John was still trying to discern if the man was a threat to them or not, but he didn't like people trying to lump them all together.

Boss continued to look around, replying as if he was only half-listening. "Uh huh. Well, if you want to continue being anything, y'all better help me find something to distract a wave that big."

Everyone fell quiet for a moment, all trying to think of a way out of the mess they were in. Suddenly, Herbert's face lit up and he released a small chuckle. "How about an explosive?" he suggested, holding his makeshift flamethrower.

"How 'bout two?" Spider held up his own as well.

"Now that's an idea I can get behind. Throw them in the crowd of those things and make them go boom with a well-placed bullet."

"I can hit a small target from a pretty good distance," John explained, offering his help to the idea.

Herbert began to hand the can over to Boss' outstretched arm, but Spider stopped him.

"I got a better idea. Think you can hot-wire that car over there?" Spider pointed to a vehicle behind the other men; a small, green, four-door sedan that had seen better days was parked along the sidewalk.

"Does a bear shit in the woods?" Boss replied with a smirk.

Spider smirked back, releasing a short laugh.

"If you're thinking we make a run for it, can't. Got something I'm doing here, and someone I'm not leavin' behind."

"Are you insane?!" Herbert cut in before his associate could respond. "Who wants to  _willingly_  stay in a place where there are hundreds of reanimates, all grouped together, roaming the streets and looking for a snack."

Boss shook his head. "I'm not into repeatin' myself, and I ain't leavin'."

Sensing a moment where he could steer the conversation back on track, Spider interjected, "With the car and the cans, I was thinking of making a bomb. A big one."

All three men stood in silence and, even though he couldn't see their faces on account of the masks, Spider knew there was a shared sense of disbelief between them.

"What?!" he defended, raising his tone slightly. "I told you I grew up in a tough neighborhood. Learned some shit."

"Yeah," Boss replied, shaking his head as he turned and began to walk towards the green car. "Some real shady shit from the sound of things."

* * *

Spider slid his tall, skinny frame from under the car, wiping at his forehead to no avail, as the collected sweat trickling down his face merely sat where the mask met snug against his skin. His hands, however, could be dealt with, and his pants paid the price as he smeared grime and loose motor oil all over them. While he had done his best to avoid using the hand that had been injured, spots of oil and dirt still managed to soak into the silk-like fabric of the lingerie covering and make him apprehensive of a possible infection. He arched his head to the side to look at Boss, who was tossing a heavy brick from one hand to the other. The action itself would've been menacing if not for the fact that his focus wasn't on Spider at all. He seemed to be looking at something far away. Suddenly, the man placed the brick on the hood of the car and walked forward a few steps, scooping up a loose length of rebar in his hands without breaking pace. He continued forward, arching his arm back and bringing it forward in a fast, hard swing that made the steel bar produce a slicing 'whoosh' sound as it cut through the air. The sound was short-lived, abruptly ending when it created a soft cracking noise as it impacted and penetrated the skull of an approaching zombie.

"Man, that was pretty badass, I gotta admit," Spider stated in praise once the man made it back to the car.

"Yeah, yeah," Boss answered, grinning. "Car good to go?"

Spider nodded and watched as the man masterfully worked his skills and had the car running in under a minute. The engine rumbled under the hood as the brick was placed on the accelerator, pushing it to the floor and gunning the motor to its limits.

Boss' hand hovered over the controls to the stereo system as he looked at Spider one more time. "You ready?"

Spider simply nodded again and the speakers began to blast out a country-sounding song. The dial spun and a rap song with a deep base line began to play. Boss turned the volume up as much as possible and, before he knew it, both he and Spider were beating feet back to where John and Herbert were already situated. Even though most of their current concrete jungle looked almost identical to any other part, the two men peeking their heads over a half-wall of crumbled brick was a dead giveaway. Spider could have laughed at the sight if the adrenaline coursing through his veins allowed him to do so; John and Herbert reminded him of two children who had snuck out of their beds on Christmas eve, hoping to get a sneak peek at Santa as they leered through a staircase railing. Before the men were fully hidden, the undead began to flood the area. Luckily, their attention was drawn to the car above all else.

"About three more minutes, four tops," Spider informed, watching as more and more of the shambling bodies surrounded the vehicle. The number was so great that the car had been swallowed up and the music was becoming muted, but he could hear glass cracking under the weight of bodies and the creak of the vehicle as it was rocked back and forth. That made him nervous. If the brick slipped off the accelerator, the exhaust manifold wouldn't heat up nearly as fast and the aerosol cans would take even longer to blow, and if the sound became too drown-out, the walking dead would begin to wander in different directions, leaving the blast radius.

"Five, four, three, two, one..." Spider counted down quietly, watching the seconds tick by on his grandfather's old pocket watch while mimicking the procedure with his right hand, curling each finger into a fist-shape. In all honesty, he didn't know why he was counting down, but he had to do something once all eyes fell on him after five minutes passed and an explosion hadn't occurred. "Zero," he finished, clenching his right hand tightly and hoping to somehow will the shitty little green sedan to detonate. It didn't. Absolutely nothing seemed to happen, until...

"You gotta be kiddin' me." The words were soaked in disappointment as the sound of the car's engine ceasing to rev any longer. The continued, intensified rocking had finally knocked the brick off the pedal and, with it, any hope that the plan would succeed.

John and Boss shook their heads in disappointment, both looking down as they did so, and, much to the punk's surprise, Herbert had laid a hand of comfort on his should, as if to say it was at least a noble effort.

Spider released a long sigh. "Dam-"

His expletive was cut short by a small blast from under the car that shot flames between the legs of the roaming bodies on the outside of the horde. No more than a second later, it was followed by a large blast from the spot where the undead had dogpiled on the vehicle. Both body parts and car parts were sent flying in all directions as an enormous cloud of orange, yellow and black ruptured before the eyes of the four onlookers.

"Shit!" Spider yelled while crouching to a duck along with the other men as a flaming tire, still on its rim, flew into the brick wall mere feet above them and bounced away a moment later.

As the group slowly rose to peer over the partition of wall in front of them, a rain of blood and gore falling all around them, they were left in silent elation at the sight in front of their eyes. Most of the dead were, once again, dead and those that were not taken out in the initial blast were either being burnt to a crisp in an all-consuming flame or setting their fellow flesh-eaters on fire as well with the slightest touch.

"Yeah!" Boss yelled out boisterously, pumping his fist far above his head. "Burn, bitches!"

Spider released a holler of celebration, not able to stop himself, and it only continued as both John and Herbert joined along in their own forms of vocal jubilation. The men stood triumphant as the large congregation of walking corpses had been obliterated in record time, their concerted effort paying off when, it seemed, they were all at each others throats not too long before. Though their cheering did bring a few stragglers to their location, they were quickly dispatched by the two versed shooters of the group. The thing that cut their shouting short was when a female voice began blaring from the side of Boss' mask.

"What the fuck was that?"

"What the fuck was  _that_?" Spider spat right back, completely unaware of how the voice was coming from the mask.

"Uh..." Boss hesitated to answer either person, feeling instantly awkward.

"Don't ignore me!" Viola demanded after Boss' whimper of a reply. "I can see new smoke rising from where I'm at!"

Taking the advice of his fellow Saint, Boss ignored the young man and turned his back to him, huffing in irritation before he actually spoke in a whisper. "It's fine, Viola. Just a wave we needed-"

" _We_?!" Viola's voice interrupted, the sense of annoyance in it much stronger.

"I'll explain later," he promised. "Look, ran into a little trouble and the Sonic Boom kinda... broke."

She sighed loudly before commenting, "You idiot."

"The headset in my mask broke, too," he quickly added. "Stuck on speaker phone, so now isn't exactly the time to be discussing any... sensitive matters." He looked back at the men briefly. "Besides, your God-awful screech is gonna bring more bodies our way."

"Whatever," Viola huffed. "Just call me when you're on your way here. I found the third canister, but we can't move it to a water source without the Sonic Boom, so we'll have to figure something else out. You did get the second one already, right?"

A look of stupor and embarrassment quickly flashed across the man's face. "Oh shit! Uh, I mean, of course... of course."

"For being a leader of such a powerful gang, you have a shit poker face." There was a beep following her words, signaling the end of the call.

"You couldn't even see my face!" Boss called out to no one before turning back around to face the others again.

The back and forth Spider had listened to was quick and short, but it lasted long enough for him to grow curious about the voice on the other end of the conversation. Contrary to what Boss had said, Viola's voice sounded sexy to the punk, smoky even. Not only was her delivery sensual to his ears, the way she handled herself in conversation made him feel like she was a woman who knew what she wanted and didn't put up with much shit; two traits of a strong woman... the kind that he always found himself attracted to. "That your girl?" he asked, truly interested. "The someone you're not leaving behind?"

"Yeah, she's one, but certainly not the other," Boss confirmed with a chuckle at the end of his statement. "Viola's sexy and all, I guess... and she's got a great rack, but I don't usually sleep with women who've tried to kill me."

"Excuse me? She tried to  _kill_  you?" the punk stammered, filled with shock at the revelation.

"Well, not directly. Viola, along with her sister, Kiki, hired a bunch of hooker assassins to take me and the rest of the 3rd Street Saints out."

"Hooker... assassins?" John questioned, unable to stop the laugh that wobbled his words.

Boss sighed. "Long story, no time."

"These canisters your looking for..." Herbert spoke up, breaking himself from his thoughts and recalling what they saw just before they had masked up. "They wouldn't happen to be oblong and leaking a green gas, would they?"

Boss took a few steps towards the doctor, standing directly in front of him and seeming to tower over the shorter man. "Where did you see it?"

* * *

After Herbert revealed the location, notably nervous as he spoke, the men all moved back to the spot together. Boss didn't make a fuss, but only because he knew he would need extra muscle to push the heap of metal into the Lahey river, and the others followed him because they needed someone who knew the area and what to expect from it. Striking up conversation was easy, as Boss was a natural talker, and explaining what they had walked into almost felt mandatory. It only became easier when Spider inquired about the Boss' earlier mentioned gang, the 3rd Street Saints. As the story went, the gang rose through the ranks in their hometown of Stilwater to boundless power and influence, even absorbing a large corporation into their outfit and getting their hands into almost everything as a result. The gang went from being unheard of to a brand name in the ten years since the Boss had joined. Their luck, however, had seemed to take a sudden turn for the worst over the past few months, starting with an attempted hostile takeover by a multi-national criminal organization that left the Saints' leader and top lieutenants stranded in the declining city of Steelport. It had been an uphill battle from the start of their new beginnings, but the Saints had been prevailing overall, gaining power and disposing of individual foes and rival gangs all the same. Their latest endeavor, however, had not exactly gone by without a hitch. It had actually ended with quite a considerable hitch... one that resulted in the current infestation of zombies the group found themselves surrounded by in the newly-crowned neighborhood of the dead. After raiding weapon crates aboard an airborne cargo plane, Boss had accidentally destroyed the entire cockpit of the aircraft in an effort to gain access to it by using the Sonic Boom to open the locked door. The plane, and the majority of its military-grade cargo, crashed into Arapice Island, taking out the chemical plant when it hit the ground and releasing the green gas into the air while scattering a few containers all over the enclave.

"...and that, in a nutshell, is how..." Boss groaned, taking a moment to breath in deeply while he helped John and Spider push the oblong canister with all their might, "...the Saints were born, and where we're at today. Goddamn this thing is heavy!"

"You sure do like to talk, man," Spider complained through panted breaths. "Feels like we been pushing this thing forever, but your lips've been movin' longer than that! How the hell did you survive a plane crash any-damn-way?"

Boss released a laugh. "I didn't; snuck into a tank after I blew out the cockpit. Ran into some... problems with that one and ended up having to switch tanks in mid-air..."

Spider's mouth was slightly ajar at the fantastical story. "If that Viola chick is right, you're one of the luckiest idiots I've ever met."

Before Boss could reply with a snappy comeback, their lookout, Herbert, alerted the group to possible incoming danger in the form of yet another limping undead.

"I got it."

"Nah," John coolly replied, whipping out his P85 and blasting a hole in the middle of the corpse's head without more than a sideways glance at it. "You had the last one."

"Alright," Boss replied after a stunned moment of silence. "I got the next one then." The one thing he couldn't help but be continually impressed by was the gunslinger's perfect, effortless aim. "You must have the spirit of one of those old wild west cowboys in you to shoot like that, John." he stated through quiet laughter.

John stopped his effort to start pushing the container again, staring at the newcomer. "H-how did you know my name?"

"Loudmouth over there called it out when were were pointin' guns at each other instead of these freaks," Boss replied, pointing to Spider as he did so. "Also let Doc's name slip, too."

"Not exactly," Herbert sighed. "My name is Herbert. Herbert West."

"Herbert sounds kinda goofy," Boss stated with a hint of sarcasm in his heightened tone. "I'mma keep callin' ya Doc." He turned his attention back to the punk he had worked on the car bomb with. "Never did catch your name, though, brotha."

Though his defensive side was quick to kick in and make Spider tell the man he wasn't his 'brotha', he stopped himself from igniting a bridge that wasn't even fully built and instead obliged him with an answer. "Spider."

“Wait, now... he's- he's your brother?” John asked, the sincerity of confusion in his voice making the whole situation wobble on the border of pathetic and solemn. “How? He ain't never been here before; ya didn't even know his name.”

“Oh god...” Herbert sighed in a quiet voice, lowering his head and bringing a hand to the portion of the mask covering his forehead.

“Um...” Boss had no idea how to take John's words.

“It's slang, John; we're not really brothers,” Spider was quick to explain. “It's like... a sign of comradery between two black folk. Ya know, like, when some other random cowboy would come up to you and call you 'partner' even though he didn't _really_ know you. They did do that back then, right?”

“Ah,” John released, sounding as if Spider had found the right switch to turn on for it to make sense to him. “I do believe I get it now- this is how people strike up conversation these days?”

“Well,” Boss said through a grunt, ignoring the question and pushing the against the canister again, “now that we all know each others names, and you all know about me an' the Saints, 'bout time ya'll tell me your past... or what brought ya'll together, since John said something about a 'damned mask'.” He changed his pitch as he spoke his last line, trying to mimic John's gruff, somewhat somber voice as best as he could. His attempt made Herbert and Spider laugh, but there is a certain sense of unease in their amusement.

"Or maybe you guys can just at least tell me what the hell you're doing in Steelport... or on this shit-hole of an island, to be exact."

With the new line of questions, things suddenly became quiet... and a little uncomfortable. John, Herbert and Spider all looked at one another, each trying to read the look or signal they may be giving the others behind their masks, but none truly successful. The punk simply shrugged his shoulders while Herbert rose his hand, raising a single finger as if to ask for the others to give him a moment to think of something.

"Well, um... we were all trying to escape a burning building when... oh, wait, the mask... hmm... buy? Yes, buy! We were all trying to buy the same mask when... when we-"

"Just stop, West," John ordered with a sigh, shaking his head and turning around to face Boss. While thinking up a cover story had worked once, he simply wasn't up for the charade a second time around and spontaneously decided to open up about their situation to the man immediately instead. "Listen, what we have to say might sound crazy. Hell, it  _is_  crazy, but it's all true, alright? You want to hear our story? Well here it is..."

The movement of the container slowed to a snail's pace as John regaled Boss with his tale, each segment seeming to not only outdo the last, but reach further and further into the realm of the outlandish. Boss was apprehensive to believe anything he was being told at first, even going to the point of laughing himself into hysterics when all three men innocently agreed that he should believe the long-winded tales, but it was the intelligent doctor who brought him to his senses. All it took was him simply asking why their story was far-fetched, but an Ultor-created chemical that was released into the air and brought the dead back to life was not. With the reasonable counter-argument out in the open, Boss found his sensibilities urging him to actually believe the men, and his mentality soon followed.

"Say I do actually believe you guys," he began to proposition, glad to see they were nearing an edge of the island where there was an opening in the fence that would allow them to push the canister into the river, "Do you have any proof? Video footage of the UFO? Maybe some aliens? A container of that 245-Trioxin stuff? Might be a helluva lot stronger than this Ultor chemical from the sounds of it."

"Aside from the mask, which you ain't touchin',  _we're_  the proof, mister!" Spider insisted. "We all came from somewhere different, John's a fuckin' bonafied cowboy from the wild west, just like you guessed! He was born in the eighteen-fuckin-hundreds! And, hell, if that ain't enough for ya, Herbert collected some of that contaminated flesh from one of them zombies back at the warehouse. He's got it in his medicine bag."

Herbert opened his mouth to quickly rebuke what the young man divulged, not too keen to offer up his collections as any form of 'proof' that their word was truth, but someone else had words for him first.

"What?!" John shouted, quite shocked. "You kept the flesh of one of those beasts back there? Is that what the black stuff in the jar was? You know damn-well how dangerous that stuff is, West! You burn it and it gets into the air, this whole mess'll get way worse! You can't properly kill those things!" The cowboy was all of the sudden in a rage, feeling like he had been lied to by the omission of information from his partner. "I felt off about even letting you capture a few of those damn slugs, but this? This is-"

"What the fuck?!" Spider shouted, interrupting John without hesitation. "You caught some of those things that killed Detective Cameron? You  _kept_  'em? They here now, in your damn bag?"

"I'm a scientist!" Herbert barked back in defense of himself and his decisions. "And I'm on the brink of discovering how to defeat death, alright?! I just need to tweak something in my formula to perfect it and maybe, just  _maybe_ , one of those two things can help! I'm not a monster, I'm just trying to achieve the greatest accomplishment mankind has ever known!"

"I thought... you were a doctor, Doc, not some lab geek," Boss spoke after a few moments of uneasy silence.

Herbert shook his head, an undeniable feeling of déjà vu visiting him as the scenario reminded him of his snit with Detective Cameron. "I'm both. Anyone who knows what doctors do also knows they can easily dabble in science to better understand and improve their own craft."

"Whatever," Boss stated, once again pushing the container to its final destination. "If y'all are done fighting, you wanna help me finish pushin' this pile of shit in the river?"

Reluctantly, silently, all three men joined Boss and exerted the final force of strength needed to shove the collection of metal and gas over the edge of the concrete barrier and into the body of water. It quickly sunk, sucking in water on all sides as it descended into the depths of the river, and the green fumes seemed to gurgle and struggle against the very liquid that was filling its container, losing its hue and smog-like thickness along the way.

"Well, that was easy enough," Boss stated, panting once again. "Say, Doc, how the hell you plan on defeating death? I mean that seems like a pretty tall order to be-"

"Help me! They're everywhere!" Viola's voice burst from Boss' broken com, scaring all four men.

"Shit!" Boss yelled before pressing the button to communicate with his colleague. "Viola, where are you?"

"West district!" she shouted, her voice sounding as if panic was taking over. "About five-hundred feet from the crash site!" There was audible gunshots from both the com and an echo bouncing to the men from where they were fired. "Fuck!"

"Hold on; we're comin!"

"Hurry!"

Radio silence followed, but there were the encroaching sounds of yet more gunfire from the same location the first shots rang from.

"I hope you boys are wearin' your running shoes," Boss stated, briefly looking back over his shoulder at the three men before bolting ahead. "Because you're gonna fuckin' need 'em!"


End file.
